He keeps trying to scream, so I push the metal thing into his chest really, really hard.
The little Daddy coughs red stuff all over my fingers. He shakes his head and falls down, so I pull him backwards through the wooden wall-door and close it again. While he’s lying on the tickly green stuff with his legs kicking and his arms squirming, I keep my hand over his lips and drag the metal thing out of his chest. He’s not screaming now, but his mouth goes, “ACK, ACK, ACK.”
I push the metal thing into his belly and pull it out really fast, in and out, in and out, like I’m fucking him. Soon, his white top-clothes are all red and he falls asleep with his eyes open, staring up and past me.
The little Daddy’s legs are spread open, like a Good Girl waiting to be fucked. It makes me think about the little Daddy’s cock. It can’t be as big as My Daddy’s, but will it get big one day?
I push the metal thing through his leg-clothes, into the place where his cock is. As I push it in and pull it out, I count 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, up to 15.
“You like it when I do that, don’t you?” I whisper, as I pull out the metal thing. “Because you’re a Good Girl.”
I think about checking to see if he has lost all of his cock, and maybe chewing on whatever’s left, like I did with My Daddy, but then there is a very loud noise.
Past the walls of the big place where My Room is, there are other big green things. All of the ground is green and tickly and everything smells sweet, like soap, or like an apple. The loud noise comes again, and something that might be a really big car goes by.
I put a hand over my mouth. My palm tastes like red stuff.
I don’t want to go back to My Room, but I don’t want to stay here with the sleeping little Daddy, and I don’t want to go back through the wooden wall-door, or go towards the place with the cars.
Behind the sleeping little Daddy there is a wooden wall. I crawl past the little Daddy and stand up and reach up to the top of the wooden wall. I jump, like I do when I’m doing my exercising. The wood feels prickly on my hands, just like my pubes feel when they start to grow back whenever I’ve been a Bad Girl and forgotten to shave them. I pull my head up above the wooden wall and there’s another room without a ceiling, with more big green things and a green floor and some other little things that are coloured blue and red and yellow. There’s also something small with four legs, black hair and big yellow eyes.
“Dog,” I say, feeling dizzy.
When I pull my foot up and over the top of the wooden wall, the thing with four legs, the dog, disappears under one of the big green things. The wood feels sharp against my cunt so I pull my other foot over and drop down onto the tickly green stuff in the new room.
There is another big place here, with walls and two doors made of screen next to each other. It looks a lot like My Daddy’s big place.
If my Daddy stays in the big place where My Room is, maybe there is another Daddy who stays in this one.
Maybe there is another Good Girl who always stays in Her Room, too.
When I walk over to the door made of screen I feel different again, but not too shaky. I pull down the handle and step inside.
8. Serenity
If only we had the whole day free. It used to happen sometimes before the twins were born, when Stuart had the day off from the office and when Declan was at school or with friends. We would spend hours in bed, exploring.
“Good slut,” Stuart breathes, looking down at me as I lie on my back with my hands cuffed to opposite bedposts. My ass will probably bruise from his bites, because we can’t spank or do anything too loud with the kids in the house. Stuart says, “You don’t deserve to see me, do you?”
“No, sir,” I reply, glancing at the clock before he blindfolds me. Still five minutes before there’s any risk of the kids’ bath time ending.
Stuart covers my eyes with a black leather mask and slips between my legs to lick me, but more roughly than when we make love. He bites my thighs and slaps my clit, pinches my buttocks and pushes his tongue into my ass. I have to clench my teeth to stop crying out.
I cum quickly, silently, and my head becomes muzzy. As my inner muscles tighten around Stuart’s fingers I hear him coo.
“That’s nice,” he says. “What a good little slut you are.”
Somewhere beyond my submissive roleplay my mind fills with love for the father of my children. He’s the Big Spoon to my Little Spoon, the friend and partner who informs me when he thinks I’m right or wrong, and tells me that I’m beautiful, even though I’m not as young or as firm as I once was.
I feel Stuart clamber up the bed, his thighs on either side of me. The heavy bob of his erection climbs a trail between my breasts.
“Wait,” I hiss.
My eye-mask has turned the room black and featureless, but I can still hear the kids splashing in the tub.
Behind the bathroom door, Declan says, “Lilith, stop trying to eat Phil’s boat.”
I thought I’d heard something else, though.
Stuart halts his path towards my mouth, no doubt listening too.
From the bathroom there’s the unmistakable noise of Lilith’s tears, Phillip’s chuckles and Declan muttering, “Goddamn it.”
“It’s okay,” Stuart says, his voice firm and reassuring as he continues his climb.
I feel his hand grasp my throat. Something about the movement of the air and the positioning of his weight tells me that his other hand is leaning against the wall behind me. I smell him more strongly as the head of his cock prods my chin.
I stretch open my mouth and lie obediently still as he glides his erection between my lips, moving it along my tongue towards the back of my mouth where it presses against my well-trained gag reflex. I can tell that Stuart is at his stiffest by how thick his veins feel, bulging against my upper lip.
“You beautiful … fucking whore …” he gasps, and thrusts between my lips, continuing to grip my throat. “You want it so bad, don’t you?”
“Yes sir,” I say, but because my mouth is filled and my throat is closed, my affirmation sounds more like panicked denial.
Beneath the noise of his panting and my own heartbeat thumping in my temples, I hear a sound like rushing footsteps.
Stuart’s breathing halts. He freezes.
The head of Stuart’s cock remains between my lips, motionless, as though he’s delaying his orgasm. There’s no time though. I’m about to urge him on, to remind him that the kids will be out of the bathroom and needing to be dressed for Castle Land soon, when warm fluid coats my chin.
“Mmm, thank you sir,” I say, stretching out my tongue to catch the semen.
The liquid isn’t coming from the end of Stuart’s cock, though, and it tastes different.
I hear a high-pitched whimper.
“Stuart?” I ask.
He breathes a single word – “What?” – before his weight topples sideways.
“Stuart? Stuart?”
Wrapped in the leather mask’s artificial darkness, I become aware of a third presence.
A voice that I’ve never heard before, female and gristly and low, says: “Yes, that’s right. Show me that tight asshole.”
9. Girl
“Who is that?” the Girl on the bed says.
I wriggle the metal thing, tugging it a bit.
The Daddy goes, “UH.”
The metal thing slides out of his tight asshole. It goes, SHLUP.
“Please,” the Girl says. “Who is that? What have you done?”
This big place is even warmer and even bigger than My Daddy’s big place.
I had walked in and heard noises from up some stairs. At the top, behind a white door, I had seen a Daddy fucking a Girl’s mouth on a bed. Seeing it had made me think of when My Daddy had fucked my mouth and made me puke. That had made me feel shaky and even more different, and I’d thought, It should be them, not us. So I had held the metal thing out front of me, stepped forwards really fast, and shoved it up the Daddy’s ass.
&n
bsp; The Daddy hasn’t looked at me. He’s lying on the bed with his ass up, which is dribbling red stuff. He’s half-on top of the Girl and he’s breathing different and holding his balls where the metal thing had come out. He’s biting his lip and his eyes are all white.
“Hello? Who are you?” the Girl on the bed says.
She can’t see me because she has a black thing covering her eyes. She’s panting really quickly, going “HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH.”
I pull the Daddy off her. He groans, like he’s cumming, and his eyes stop being white. He looks at me with his mouth hanging open and says, in a whispery voice, “It’s a girl.”
Maybe I should make him fall asleep and turn him into a Good Girl, like I did to the little Daddy on the tickly green stuff. He kicks his legs out, like he’s trying to stand up, but then he goes, “HEEEEE,” and stops moving.
I feel really, really different when I look at the Girl on the bed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real Girl before. She is still gasping. She has short, messy brown hair that makes her look really cute, and she has tits and a cunt like I do and like they do in the films, but she’s … here.
I step forwards. She squeaks like she’s being spanked.
“What are you doing?” she asks, and her voice is really scratchy. She curls her legs up to get away from me but she can’t move her arms because they’re spread wide, with her left wrist and her right wrist handcuffed to the opposite bedposts.
A voice from behind me goes, “Dad! Can you come get the twins? I’m going to shower now!”
The Daddy on the bed looks towards the door. “Declan…” he says, but it’s like he can’t breathe.
“Declan!” the Girl on the bed shouts. “Take the twins and run! Get out of here!”
The Daddy on the bed looks at me. Then he looks at the door. Then he looks at the Girl on the bed.
“Stay still,” I tell him.
I hear something click, and when I turn, I see a littler Daddy standing in the doorway.
“Declan,” I say, repeating what the Daddy on the bed and the Girl had called him.
When Declan sees me, he looks like he gets smaller. Behind him, there are two shapes sitting in a big white thing filled with water. I can’t see if they are Daddies or Girls.
“Declan,” I say again.
Declan’s mouth opens and closes and opens again.
“Here,” I say to Declan. I click my fingers and point to the floor next to me, just like I saw a Daddy do in a film. That Daddy’s Girl had a ballgag and a buttplug and nipple clamps that had pinched her tits. She was crying, but she had done as the Daddy had told her.
Declan just stands there though, like a Bad Girl.
“Declan!” the Girl on the bed shouts. “If you can’t run, stay in the bathroom and lock the door!”
Declan nods really fast and steps backwards. He shuts the other door with a click so I turn back to the Girl on the bed.
The Daddy is groaning again, but not like Daddies do when they get cocksucked. He groans like Girls do when their Daddies hit them or burn them or make them feel shaky and different. He looks at the Girl on the bed and takes one red hand off his balls, and then reaches up and pulls the black thing down off the Girl’s eyes.
10. Serenity
I’ve only ever seen this look on Stuart’s face once before; when we thought that Phillip, my little survivor, was going to live no more than an hour after his birth. Stuart’s look is a childlike gaze of disbelief and pleading, as if for a few frozen moments I’m no longer his lover, but his mother. I see him half-sprawled beside my naked legs, gazing up at me. I see him gripping his crotch. I see the fan of blood that has sprayed across the sheets and over my breasts.
I taste that blood.
The shape of our intruder fills my peripheral vision, but at first I am too afraid to look. When I break eye contact with my husband and take in her sight at last, I do so with both revulsion and unexpected pity.
A thin, late-adolescent girl with an underbite stands nude at the foot of our bed, gripping a long Japanese-style chef’s knife at her side, its point slicked red. Her dark brown hair reaches her waist, unstyled but clean, reminding me of a schoolchild’s despite the fact that she is almost a woman. A mess of fresh and fading bruises mark her upper arms, and her wrists are tracked with what appear to be scratch marks, some of which have scabbed. She takes me in with dull, grey eyes that are never still. Below them, her lips are streaked red and her small breasts speckled with what could be vomit.
My first impression is that the girl does not appear angry, or frenzied, or delirious; above all things, she appears disoriented.
With my arms still cuffed to the bed and my husband so clearly injured, I have never felt so helpless.
“What did you do?” I ask, as the world feels as though it is dropping away beneath me.
The girl blinks. A tremor crosses her face. “Daddies shouldn’t fuck girls like they do. The other film said.”
Behind her, across the landing, the bathroom door cracks open and Declan peers out, eyes wet with tears.
I shout, “Declan, lock that door again, now!”
The girl turns, snarling suddenly, and using both hands she raises the knife over her head like a sword. Declan sucks in air and yanks the door shut. I hear him fumble with the lock.
The girl looks back at me, her face losing its animation and falling blank. “What happens after they go to sleep?”
Stuart groans.
“Quiet,” she tells him.
I struggle to see past my husband’s agony. “After who go to sleep?”
“When the red stuff comes out, like your daddy, when do they wake up?”
My insides twist at her words but I summon an icy stillness, the kind with which I responded to my husband’s terror, just over a year ago. We had held each other on that hospital bed, facing the likelihood that our newborn son would die before we had even named him. Stuart had looked at me, as if in search of answers that I did not possess. My little survivor Phillip pulled through though, so now, staring back at my husband, I decide that Phillip will be my focus: I will remember that he lived on, despite all signs having pointed towards his death. If Phillip could survive that, then my family can survive anything.
“This isn’t my daddy,” I tell the girl, nodding at Stuart. “This is my husband. And if he falls asleep after you have hurt him like this, he might not wake up. He…” – I choke back a sob – “He might die.”
The girl speaks as though she is dreaming. “My daddy might not wake up, then.”
“Did you…” I begin, trying not to let panic melt away my calm, wanting to keep her talking. “Did you hurt someone else, too?”
Stuart moans again and I feel his body tense beside me. I’ve had no medical training and can’t imagine the pain of what I assume must be his stab wound. I glance at his exposed backside, and despite my rising horror feel dimly relieved that his blood is not rushing out at an alarming rate.
Our intruder says, “I hurt my Daddy because he caught me being a bad girl.” Her hands are shaking. “I was watching the other film and he didn’t like it. He turned it off, and then I got shaky and felt different and I pushed him and hit him with the screen and then he fell asleep.”
She bites her lower lip like a disobedient child, and her eyes flit across the bed and then down across her own body. One of her hands leaves the knife and rakes her other arm with its short, sharp nails.
“One, two, three…” she counts, but then stops as a realisation alters her face. She looks at the blade and raises it to her drawn stomach.
“No, no…” I say.
The girl drags the knife through the flesh from her navel around to her side, mewling like an injured animal.
“No, honey, no.”
The term of endearment leaves my mouth unbidden, and seems to break even Stuart’s agonised concentration. He looks up, face pained but quizzical.
The unexpected word alerts me to something.
This gir
l may have assaulted my husband, who now lies bleeding and on the brink of unconsciousness beside me. She may have forced my children to hide themselves in a locked room, shielded by nothing but a flimsy wooden door. She may have rendered me helpless and terrified for my family’s life – but she too needs protection.
I have seen milder forms of her behaviour in friends, in “problem children” at Declan’s school, and even once in an old lover. I know as surely as I know my own name that this girl has suffered trauma, abuse; it glares out from her bruises, scratches and scars, from her childish phrasing and her trembling body language.
As I watch the girl carve trickling divots into her stomach, I realise something with unimpeded clarity: my little survivor Phillip may very well have escaped death when he was born, but that was then, and this is now.
The truth is, this girl could very well kill us all.
11. Girl
The metal thing is very Good at scratching the Bad away, and as I close my eyes and scratch my stomach, I almost feel like I’m back in My Room again.
The Girl on the bed is saying something.
“Honey, no. No.”
She sounds like a girl from one of the films, a girl who says, “No no no,” to a Daddy, but whose Daddy keeps saying, “Yes yes yes.”
I open my eyes.
The Daddy on the bed says, “Uh.” He sounds sleepy and his ass is still drooling red stuff. I feel like a Bad Girl, but the Daddy shouldn’t have been fucking the Girl’s mouth because Daddies shouldn’t fuck Girls like they do – the Other Film said so.
I get shaky again, but I’ve scratched the Bad away for now. My belly hurts much worse than when I use my nails or when I hit my arms against the wall. Worse, so it’s better.
“What’s your name?” the Girl on the bed asks. She has really big eyes, and her tits shudder when she breathes. Even though she is naked and her arms are outstretched and handcuffed, she doesn’t look much like a Girl from one of the films. Those Girls are little, thinner, and their skin is smoother and their tits rounder.
What Good Girls Do Page 3
