“What’s your name?” she asks me again.
The Daddies and the Girls in my books have names like Kate or Lolita or Sally, but My Daddy says that I am too Good to have a name. My Daddy says that I am so Good that he has to keep me safe in My Room.
I don’t say anything to the Girl on the bed, because I don’t know what to say.
“What do you want?” she asks me.
I just say, “Daddies shouldn’t fuck Girls like they do.”
The Girl on the bed’s face changes. She has her Daddy’s red stuff all over her chin. “Look…I want to help you,” she says. “There are other people who will want to help you, too. But I can’t do anything while I’m stuck here. If you unlock these…” She rattles the handcuffs. “…I will try to help. I promise. Just…please let me call the hospital for Stuart, here.”
She’s saying words that I don’t know. It makes my head fill with voices and colours and cocks splitting cunts and assholes open and I hear myself say, “Urrrrrgggghhh,” but that doesn’t help, so I use the metal thing to scratch some more of the Bad away, scratching it over my tits and my shoulders and my belly.
The Girl on the bed says, “No no no no no.”
Even though she doesn’t stop me using the metal thing, I notice that it isn’t scratching the Bad away anymore. Everything is so different and I keep thinking of Daddies fucking me and words that I don’t understand and all the red stuff I’ve seen today.
“Stop!” the Girl says.
I stop, but the voices and the pictures keep coming.
What if I scratch the Daddy’s Bad away, instead of mine?
I hurry to the other side of the bed. The Girl shuts up like a Good Girl and watches me watching her Daddy. I crouch down and look at his sleepy face, with its eyes closed and its whistling breath.
The Girl shakes her handcuffs against the bed, and yells, “Stop! Don’t!”
The red stuff coming from the Daddy’s ass has slowed down. I’m thinking about the Other Film, and about the films with the Daddies fucking the Girls, and about my Daddy fucking me, and about this Daddy fucking the mouth of the Girl on the bed.
They shouldn’t fuck us like they do.
The Girl on the bed says, “Please please please, don’t!”
I hold the metal thing up as I look down at the Daddy’s face. His cheek is flat against the bed. I take hold of his hair and point the metal thing down at him.
The Girl is still saying, “Please please please.”
I remember one of the films, and for a second I feel Good.
“Yeah that’s it,” I tell the Girl’s Daddy. “I wanna see you puke.”
So I put the end of the metal thing against his lips, as if it was a big thick cock, and I push. His eyes don’t open, but the metal thing slides into his mouth sideways. It scrapes on his teeth: CCRRTTCCCTRRRTTTCCCK.
The Girl rattles her handcuffs and kicks her legs. “Wake up, Stuart! Do something!”
When I have slid half of the metal thing into the Daddy’s mouth, his eyes open a little. I hold onto his hair, though, really tight. He looks sleepy, like My Daddy sometimes does after he’s been fucking me for a long time.
This Daddy’s eyes go really big when I shove the metal thing further into his mouth. He makes a noise like a little Girl cocksucking a Daddy, and when I pull the metal thing back out, one side of his lips and face opens up, red-and-pink like a nice spread cunt. I let go of the Daddy’s hair. He splutters and red stuff comes out of his lips and down his cheek.
“You fucking bitch!” the Girl on the bed screeches.
The Daddy coughs again. It sounds wet. He looks confused. A spurt of orange stuff runs down his chin, and then he coughs some more and a big load of red stuff shoots out of his mouth and goes all over the bedsheets.
The Girl says “Stuart! Look at me, Stuart!”
There’s a noise. I turn around. The little Daddy called Declan is looking out at me from behind a door. I rush at him. The door shuts but I keep going and slam my shoulder against the wood.
BAM.
I hit the door with the back of the metal thing really, really fast.
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM.
A little voice behind the door calls, “Mum!”
Behind me, the Girl on the bed says, “Please stop!”
I bang and bang and bang with the metal thing, but the door won’t open.
I look back at the Girl on the bed and at the Daddy who I made puke, the one who she had called Stuart. He’s still coughing and it sounds all spitty, and the red stuff and the orange puke keeps slopping down his face and over the sheets. He has one hand on his cock and one hand on his throat, and he’s shivering, like a Girl who has been spanked until she cums.
The Girl is crying. She’s still saying “Please stop,” but more quietly now.
“Ssshhh, don’t cry,” I tell her, like My Daddy sometimes says after my other Daddies come to see me.
I go back to the bed and stroke the Girl’s hair. She whimpers and looks down at her tits.
Maybe I should try and scratch her Bad away, too. Then maybe the little Daddy called Declan will come out from behind the other door and I will make his red stuff come out too. Maybe if I do these things, I will feel less shaky and different, because that way, everyone else will be asleep.
I lift the metal thing and hold the sharp point against the Girl’s chin. I start crying and she looks up at me. At least she’s stopped kicking and doesn’t tell me to stop.
I think I know what I have to do, so I hold her by the back of her hair, pull up her chin, and move the metal thing down to her throat.
12. Serenity
“You’re right,” I tell the girl, when she presses the knife point against my neck. “Daddies shouldn’t fuck us like that.”
The words are part last resort, part appeal for empathy. The girl’s eyes look intoxicated, as if she’s approaching the end of a heavy drinking binge, but through the bloodshed and through all that I imagine she has suffered, she hears me.
I know with my guts that whenever she says, “daddy”, she means “men”. This is a girl, a child, who either has severe learning difficulties, or is addled by drugs, or has been so diminished by her experiences that she can no longer function healthily, if she ever could – but when I agree with her, her eyes flutter in recognition.
“My daddy won’t fuck me anymore. I made him go to sleep,” she says. She releases a little of the knife’s pressure on my neck. “We could make your daddy go to sleep, too.”
I ignore the obscene suggestion and concentrate on her lips and her crushed body language. I stare at these things because all that I truly want to do is tear off these fucking handcuffs and annihilate her before calling an ambulance for Stuart, whose spluttering and drifting consciousness (for all I know) signals imminent death. He has bled so much already, soaking the bedsheets and his chest and thighs, but I mustn’t dwell on his suffering or the risk this girl poses to us all.
“I bit my daddy’s cock and I ate some of it, because that’s what they did in the other film.”
I ask, “Where is your room?”
“In the big place next to your big place. Through a really small room and down some stairs.”
Stuart coughs. His pale face is pressed against a tacky pool of blood and vomit. His eyes are closed and his body is motionless, aside from his shivering. If he isn’t dying, he’s slipping into shock.
We were supposed to go to Castle Land…
“Do you like it when your daddy fucks you?” the girl asks.
I brace myself against an upsurge of sorrow, and tell her, “This is Stuart. He’s not my daddy. We’re married and he’s my husband.” I pause. “Do you know what that means?”
“Stuart,” the girl says, seeming to test the word before shaking her head in reply. There’s another subtle change in the knife’s pressure.
“It means that Stuart and I want to be together. We love each other. We…”
I almost mention the children.
“…don’t hurt each other.”
“He was fucking you. He was hurting you.”
Jesus Christ. She thinks she was helping.
“That was…a game,” I say, trying to shape something complex into a concept that a child could understand. “Sometimes, people who are married play games. And these games can look bad, and they can look scary, but they’re not.”
“My daddy played games with me…”
“That’s different,” I insist. “Whatever has happened to you is not the same as the things that Stuart and I do.”
The girl takes the knife away from my throat at last. With this movement the smell of her vomit mingles with a faecal scent seeping from Stuart’s wound. She lowers the blade and settles her naked rump onto the mattress beside my legs.
“I thought that my daddy and my other daddies were…like Stuart,” she says, angling her head as she looks at me. “I let them fuck my nice smooth cunt and my tight ass and my mouth.”
I nod, relieved that she no longer has the blade against my skin.
She continues, “But the other film had two girls in it, and cars, and little daddies, and a dog, and a metal thing that sprayed fire. The girls said that they didn’t like it when their daddies fucked them. And they said that girls should only like other girls.”
I nod again. She moves closer, sliding her buttocks along the bed and looking at me, as though seeing me for the first time.
“Girls should only like other girls,” she says again, and leans down so that a wave of dark hair falls from her shoulder and strokes my right breast.
When she lowers her face towards mine, the scent of her yellow bile almost stings my nose. I strain against the handcuffs, wishing to either escape or at least transform the gesture into something affectionate, something kind and pure. Her bitter-tasting mouth presses to mine and my stomach lurches.
I’m reminded of the way my grandmother’s dying breaths had tasted, before her gnarled hands had tightened to fists and then loosened as the life escaped her.
The teenager’s tongue seeks the opening to my lips, and I summon the strength to thrust my head beyond her searching mouth and touch my cheek against hers. I’m struck by the idea of biting her throat, tearing away a bleeding chunk, but I’m too certain that no matter what horrors she has committed, even to those I love and adore, she is at present a victim, above all things. Despite the rational drive to tear into our aggressor’s flesh and inflict a wound that will force her either to flee or protect herself, I can’t. Instead, I kiss her blood-smeared cheek, partly because a dim, distant side of me thinks that she could be right.
Perhaps daddies – men – shouldn’t do the things they do. I’ve had male strangers, partners, friends, and even family members touch me without my consent. Then there’s the unwarranted blasting of car horns, the “accidental” brushing of hands against my ass or crotch at a busy concert, and the frequent expectation that if I show the slightest interest in a man it means that I’m flirting, it means that I want him.
As I press my lips to the girl’s cheek, a half-buried memory re-emerges.
When I was 9, my Uncle Ron flashed me. I was sat upon his bouncing knee, when all of a sudden there was an unzipping sound. I turned around and there it was, held between the trusted, stubby fingers of a hand that until then had only touched me in innocent ways. His penis reminded me of a mole on a nature programme – pink and curious. His breathing became shallow and he almost immediately withdrew his weapon, shoving it back into the darkness of his trousers.
I had never told anyone of the incident, not even Stuart, but my experience with once-sweet Uncle Ron means that every time I hear of a woman being mistreated, abused, assaulted, or raped, it echoes with one certainty: that could have been me.
So instead of attacking this bloody, violent girl, I swallow my terrors and try to comfort her. Buried beneath her hair, I ignore the stench of her stomach acids and peck her face repeatedly, pressing my mouth to her gummy skin without lust or longing, seeking only a connection, and a route to my family’s survival.
“Sssshhh,” I tell her. “Everything will be okay.”
The girl freezes long enough for me to wonder if such intimacy will provoke the thrust of her blade.
“Am I a bad girl?” she asks, still leaning over me.
Torn, I whisper, “You just need some help. Now, if you let me out of these handcuffs, I can…”
The blow comes from nowhere.
13. Girl
When my head breaks, it’s like the time when one of my other Daddies broke my head while he was fucking me from behind. He had said, “Ah that’s nice, do that with your cunt again.” Everything had gone black, and then he had broken my head again and said, “Ah that’s nice.”
Someone starts pulling my feet away, but all I can think is that I wish I was still hugging the Girl on the bed. Holding her had felt different to when My Daddy hugs me to stop me crying. It had felt … warmer.
As I’m dragged down the bed, I hear the Girl say, “Oh God!”
I hit the floor. My nose goes CRUK, like the sound in the film when two Daddies keep punching a Girl tied to a chair.
Someone big presses onto my back. Air rushes out of my mouth.
“Declan, take the knife!” the Girl on the bed shouts.
I open my eyes. I’m looking at the floor-clothes, close up. I go stiff because the weight on my back makes me feel like I’m being fucked. That’s what I do when I’m getting fucked sometimes, I go stiff, even when a Daddy says, “Shit, it’s like fucking a corpse.”
The bed above me rocks. Whoever is on my back shifts and I can breathe again. I twist my neck until it hurts. The little Daddy from the bathroom, Declan, is sitting on me, looking very shaky and very different. I want to cut his cock to pieces, but I also want to kiss his face like the Girl on the bed had kissed mine, and tell him, “Sssshhh, everything will be okay.”
I hear a bump. I can’t move, so I rest my face sideways against the floor-clothes. Two legs appear and, between them, a cock covered in red stuff.
“Hold her wrists,” says Stuart, the Daddy who I’d fucked with the metal thing.
I remember the metal thing, but when I squeeze my fingers it’s not there anymore.
Someone grabs both my arms and pulls them behind me. My shoulders go GLUCK and I feel the back of my hands touch each other. I can feel Declan’s ass against my ass. I wait for him to put his cock inside me because I know they’re going to fuck me. Then they’re going to take me back to My Room where I will wait for my other Daddies. Then they’ll really show me that I’ve been a Bad Girl.
“Stop moving,” Stuart says. His voice scrapes like a cough. “Is she fighting?”
“No.”
With my face sideways, I see the Daddy called Stuart bend down. His hair is really short and his face is really white, but his eyes are big and staring and different, like he wants to fuck me and break my head and make me go to sleep, all at the same time.
Stuart leans towards me, closes his eyes and says “Ah.” Red stuff patters on the floor. When Stuart disappears behind me, someone else pushes my arms against my back.
One weight leaves and something even heavier presses me down.
Stuart says, “Go to the dresser, get the key, and get those handcuffs off your mother.”
“But-“
“Do as your told.”
They’ve swapped positions but Stuart isn’t sitting on me, he’s lying on me. I can feel his wet cock between my legs. It’s soft, but sometimes my other Daddies’ cocks stay soft when they want to fuck me, too.
“Be careful,” I hear the Girl on the bed say.
Declan appears at my side, holding a shiny white board. It looks heavy.
Behind me, Stuart sounds sleepy when he says, “She isn’t going anywhere.”
Declan drops the white thing with a THUNG sound. He doesn’t move and just watches me with his really big eyes.
“Don’t hurt her,” the Girl on th
e bed says.
“Don’t … don’t hurt her?” Stuart says, breathing hard through his nose. Something shoves my arms again, and Stuart says to me, “You’d deserve it, though, wouldn’t you?”
“Declan, give me those,” the Girl on the bed says. Something rattles. “Then give your father these and go check on the twins.”
When Stuart’s soft wet cock touches my cunt, he says quietly, “Ah.”
Declan still stands there staring because he wants to fuck me, just like all the other Daddies. Even though I’ve cocksucked and been fucked lots and lots of times before, thinking about it happening again today makes me feel more different than ever.
“Give me the keys and go back to the bathroom, Declan,” I hear the Girl on the bed tell him. She sounds urgent because Declan is still staring at me, not moving.
“Do as you’re told, for Christ’s sake!” Stuart shouts.
It’s as if Declan is asleep, but with his eyes open really wide.
I think of the Girl on the bed kissing my face, and about how much I want to feel it again, and I take my chance: I push my ass back really, REALLY hard against Stuart’s wet cock.
14. Serenity
Stuart wails and releases her wrists to protect his injured genitals. Declan stumbles backwards with a cry, snapped from his trance.
“Get me the fucking keys, Declan!” I yell.
Stuart’s expression becomes hateful, and as the girl wriggles beneath him he slams a fist into the back of her skull. Her eyes swim, and for an instant I despise my husband for his brutality. The girl thuds face-first into the floor. Stuart grabs a handful of her hair and presses her face into the carpet. He grunts as she thrashes and bucks beneath him, but he holds her there.
Although Declan had struck the girl with the toilet lid while she and I had embraced, the blow does not seem to have slowed her. Declan leaves the lid lying where it is and reaches, not for the keys to my handcuffs, but for the girl’s fumbled knife instead. He lifts it in one limp hand, like a child holding a toy, and it shimmers in the light from our window.
What Good Girls Do Page 4
