Meadows 3

Copyright DarknessThought 2022

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All characters in this work of fiction are 18 years or older, at the time any sexual activities take place. This is just a story, some random thoughts and imaginings, it is not meant to be real, and nor does it reflect any particular views or beliefs and practices of the writer.

Hopefully this will cover many different categories and chapters, so placing it in one particular genre may prove difficult.

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Prologue

My eyes move to his, steel grey and radiating calm. I have memorised those eyes, the darkest depths in them, igniting the unspoken needs that haunt me.

I want him so desperately; his gaze lingers on my face before sliding down my wonton body, my sensitive skin aching so severely, desperate for his touch, pleasing, teasing, exploring all my deepest darkest desires.

I want to be his so completely, his to play with for his amusement. I want him to take his time in using me, understanding my darkest desires, accepting me for all that I am. He will not resist me; he will satisfy every lust-filled need like no other, and still, I cannot help the quivers of frustrated desire, for I am impatient.

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Chapter 1: A Revelation

We remember most from childhood the things that affect our safe little world.

The one unique, untarnished memory that signalled a profound change for me was hiding behind my Mother's skirts when a tall, handsome, dashing hero came into my life. I was only four, and he was so tall, and yet he smiled at me, and I loved him from the moment he took my little hand, making me laugh and making me feel safe.

He and my Mother married. She was 26, he was just 21, still studying Law at university, and I was the happiest five-year-old little girl in the world. I had never had a Daddy before; this was new, exciting, he took a genuine interest in me, and I thought he must be the very best man in the world.

Just after they got married, he sat me down and asked me, all proper and polite, for my permission so that he could adopt me as his very own daughter. I felt so grown up and so proud that he would ask me as if I mattered. Suddenly tears started to well up in my eyes. No one had ever treated me like this; I felt such love for him and so very much loved by him, in my childish pure, trusting way.

He instantly became my Dad, and I hugged him so hard, staining his lovely white shirt with my ice cream, but he did not even seem to mind that, just held me close.

Since then, he has always held me close, protecting me, caring for me, and providing for my Mother and me.

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I was ten years old, watching my parents one night when I could not sleep. I thought my Dad was hurting my Mum. They were both naked, Mum was on her knees, and he held her hands behind her back with one hand, and the other was balled into a fist and wrapped tightly in her hair, tugging her long hair and head up hard, I thought it looked cruel, all the time he was slamming his hips hard into her bottom.

I wanted to rush in, tell him to stop, but something stopped me. What caught my attention, stopping me in my tracks, was the look on Mum's face, it was pure joy mixed with something else I did not recognise, but whatever was happening to her, she looked amazing.

After that, I called him Daddy, not Dad and I made every effort to sit in his lap and cuddle me. I made him read me stories as he tucked me in and kissed me goodnight. He was the one whose hand I would hold crossing the road, and he was the one I ran to when I felt scared.

Then my Mum got pregnant. I was going to have a baby sister. I was not jealous in the slightest. I was happy and excited, but I told my Dad that I refused to share him with anyone else and that he must give me a baby one day. He smiled at me so wide and bright and said, "Of course, but by then, my beautiful girl, I will be old, and you will be young, very beautiful and will probably want someone your age."

"Never," I told him in my most empathic tone.

Sadly, with devastating results on Mum's long term mental health, at 30 weeks, my baby sister was stillborn. Mum had slipped on some ice, doing her and baby a lot of damage; it was a sad time for everyone. I could hear the tears behind their words of comfort, hear the pain under the quiet murmurings behind closed doors.

When puberty hit me, I did not grow much past five feet four inches. Over a couple of years, I filled out to a firm, teardrop-shaped C cup, topped with what I can only describe as very sensitive nipples and puffy areoles, which insisted on showing themselves if I got excited or even too cold.

It may be very vain of me, but I thought they were perfect. Of course, my newfound cleavage got a lot of attention from boys in the neighbourhood, I did not follow through on their advances, although the effect I had on them, and they had on me, helped me understand quite a lot of things.

At the rather prim, all-girls school I attended, it was also commonplace to have every kind of wild lurid conversation possible with my girlfriends about sex. By my fourteenth birthday, I knew what my parents were doing in their bedroom that night and how it all worked.

When I realised the significance of Mum's look all those years ago, I envied her, and I wanted to feel what Mum felt. My feelings for my Daddy only grew, even more so when influenced by my best friend, who constantly told me how sexy and handsome he was, and she would do him in a heartbeat. She was very graphic about what she would love to do to my gorgeous Daddy as we sat up late at night in my room on sleepovers. Seeing him through her eyes made me realise just how sexy and attractive he was.

My Mum also constantly reminded me that I had to look up to and look after my Daddy, taking care of all his needs because he was just a brilliant provider who had given us everything. Therefore, because I was such a good little girl, I observed my Daddy, taking notice; everyone seemed to trust him, go to him for advice. People have always talked about how perfect he is, even the women teachers at my school drooled over him when they thought I could not hear, but I used to watch their eyes follow him constantly when he attended parent evenings. I, of course, always knew he was perfect. He was my Daddy, tall, handsome, and clever.

The years have not ruined his solid, muscular body or his attractiveness, and he keeps pretty fit by running and regular gym sessions during his lunch breaks when time permits. Best of all, he has never let his work interfere in our time together; from the very start, I thought he made me the centre of his world.

He is always friendly, charismatic, and professional to the strangers and colleagues he meets. To me, he was simply perfect, and the older I got, the more I noticed the women fawning over him, so I always jealously clung to him to fend them off.

I also had some rather strange reading habits for a girl, and these fuelled my early fantasies, all inspired by reading cheap pulp bodice rippers, where the men were real hard-drinking, hard smoking fighting men, and the women were proud and happy with their lot in life. The books were very graphic, designed to titivate, the men were real brutes who took what they wanted from helpless wenches, and the women invariably fell in love with their defilers.

I especially liked some of the artwork on the covers, and the men were real rugged men and the women, beautiful and captive. One book, in particular, fuelled my wilder dreams. Basma found an old, battered copy of a French-language book, "Histoire d'O", and I was enthralled with what the heroine went through for love. I did know for sure that if my parents had realised my reading habits, they would have stopped it, which only made it more salacious.

Of course, I talked about all manner of fantasies, sex and being made a woman with my best friend, Basma Sriniva. Since we first met at eight years old, she has been my best friend. Over the years, we have shared pretty much everything, almost all of the time. We double-dated boys; we got into all kinds of trouble together and on sleepovers at my house. We even practised some intense, hot, and heavy kissing techniques, with some naïve and entirely innocent fondling and groping.

There was always something, though, just at the edges of my peripheral vision, a shadow, like an unfinished thought that would creep up on me, leaving me feeling cold and empty. It took me until I was sixteen and having to spend a few weeks away from home on an exchange visit to France, the only time I had ever been apart from my Dad since I was five, for me to realise and admit to myself something was very wrong. It was like some secret game that I did not know the rules to, a game that was somehow all wrapped up in an overpowering need for my Daddy.

My memory is very selective; I forget many things, but I prefer to remember others in detail.

I had some dark, dangerous days, days of uncontrolled anger, days of self-harm and fierce rage.

My Dad suffered through it all, and now I am ashamed of the ultimate helplessness he must have felt in not finding the key to unlock my very particular problem and the pain it was causing me.

Everyone assumed it had to do with the death of my Mum; she committed suicide when I was fifteen, having never gotten over losing her baby. She blamed herself, fighting for five years against chronic debilitating depression. It was always going to be Daddy that got us through the horrible times, and he did. It was Daddy who comforted me, took care of me, wrapping me in his big strong arms, but that just made my problem worse.

I sometimes wish I could be like other teenage girls and rebel against her parents, her school, the entire world, but I couldn't; I was a good girl, and good girls don't rebel.

I just turned my rebellion inwards.

I remembered the counselling Dad arranged, rather long, awkward near silence and reproachful discussions.

Two months into the counselling, hypnosis was suggested to help break down my resistance in identifying the root cause of my problems.

The counsellor explained that under hypnosis, if I were susceptible, I would enter a changed state of consciousness involving the narrow focusing of my attention on the issues whilst reducing my awareness of the barriers I employed to avoid them.

Without the distraction of the obstacles that I had so carefully built around my problems, I could concentrate on the specific thoughts and memories that caused them.

I remember very clearly the counsellor's words, "We probably will not find a definitive answer or cure, but at least we will know what we are dealing with, and I can help you deploy coping strategies."

The following day I had my first hypnosis session; I do not remember much about it, except when I came back to consciousness, she was silent, ashen-faced, and looking like a ghost. Sessions followed every day for a week after that, and each day I thought we were making no progress. The day after the last session, my councillor held a review meeting, and she explained what she thought my problems were. She put it very simply; I had a lot of complex Daddy issues.

She explained that under hypnosis, I revealed myself to be a natural submissive who desperately wanted to be owned by my Daddy and become one of the heroines in my trashy novels. I accepted that I already belonged to him. I had a real need for him to tell me what to do; I needed him to dominate me and control me.

Her explanation rang true with me, and I readily accepted that it was the fact; after all, it was Daddy who was the one who cared for me, protecting me since I was a shy five-year-old. He was the one who loved me unconditionally, and I had suppressed these sexual feelings through guilt at having them.

I found it a little disturbing when she said that, in her opinion, but my problems had also been compounded during puberty; the underlying feelings of dependency had morphed together with my sexual awakening into awkward, naïve fantasies. Intense feelings of guilt had just added to puberty's nightmare, which I had effectively hidden away and refused to deal with all of these feelings.

Because I had repressed all of the guilt over my fantasies and my overriding need for a physical relationship with Dad, I no longer recognised it. I had only known love support, and I could not reconcile this with my needs, which had become ultimately destructive.

The hypnosis sessions had revealed my innermost conflicts, and now that I was forced to recognise them and accept them, that recognition and acceptance had ignited within me a purpose. I now identified what I needed and wanted.

Knowing the root course did make me calmer, and as a result, my mood lifted. I, against all the best advice from the counsellor, ultimately accepted my need. I developed pretty complex and lust-filled thoughts about him; particularly during my first term at university, my wicked thoughts and desires drove me crazy. Every time I thought of him after that, my nerves started growling with unspoken hunger. I knew everyone would call me a monster, but I did not want to deny the darkest fantasy etched so deeply behind my eyes.

I have come to accept that this is who I am and damn the consequences.

I cannot stop, will not stop.

It is the forbidden taboo but the sweetest of fruits, and once the thought had seeded itself, it took hold so profoundly and blossomed so quickly, it was like a dam bursting with each shameful idea.

I want him more and more; it's something that has insinuated itself into my soul, infested my fantasies, consumed my life.

I always dreamed that he felt the same way about me; I knew, of course, that he loved me unconditionally, and we were very close. I like to think that over the last year since I turned eighteen and we had come close to doing the dirty deed, I certainly gave him a lot of skin to look at and flirted with him outrageously, but maybe that was dreaming on my part.

Daughters do love their fathers as I do; they must do; an only child whose Mum had died, indeed it was the most natural thing in the world for a loving daughter to try to take her Mum's place.

Subconsciously I think I deliberately set out to seduce Daddy whenever I was home. I dressed better, no more jeans, instead I changed to short skirts and clingy tops, just sexy enough that Daddy couldn't ignore the woman I'd become.

I made sure I hugged him every day, holding him each time for longer than usual, making sure he felt my soft feminine curves pressed against him. I would always kiss him goodnight fresh from the shower, perfumed and just in a robe, and as I wriggled against him, my loose robe allowed a perfect glimpse of my young firm breasts, if he looked.

Of course, I knew that it would not be acceptable to society should anything happen. Sadly, I also knew that I was probably too young and that Dad loved me as his daughter, so eventually, I had to do the grown-up, adult thing and force myself to push the feelings aside.

It hurt, hurt more than I ever imagined, and it left me numb. I struggled to comprehend my emotions. It was not loneliness nor fear or self-pity but more an emptiness.

An Emptiness that could not be filled.

A few months later, I met Tim during a night out with Basma to celebrate my nineteenth birthday in late January. He was 28, handsome and clever. For me, I managed to convince myself that it may as well be love. He was my first, and six months later, and I started spending Saturday nights at his flat. I worked in Dad's legal firm part-time, one day a week during term and all week during holidays, the rest of the time I spent in the dorms at university. Tim worked on engineering design work for VCL, and I thought we were happy. Rather shamefully, my nasty dreams about Daddy did not vanish, and I hated to admit it to myself at the time, but when Tim and I were making love, I imagined it was my Daddy. Tim was such a gentle, considerate lover. Our Saturday night lovemaking was lights off, nighty up, so soft, and oh so brief.

Every time we did the dirty deed, I shamefully admit feeling somewhat cheated. The amount of time that sex lasted was not what was promised in my stories and books. Tim was the length of my iPhone 4 and as thick as my two little fingers. It took all of 5 minutes, and he was not assertive or aggressive. He did not have a nasty bone in his body; he could no more mistreat me, or degrade me, or even try ravishing me, than fly to the moon.

After three months of spending one night a week together, I started to become quite miserable, nasty thoughts would not leave me alone, and I became moody. Nothing anyone did seemed to satisfy or mollify me. I felt alone, did not want to talk or eat, and a lot of the time, I just wanted to shut out the world, almost completely reverting to the troubled kid I was before the counselling. I am intelligent, studying Law, yet I was pathetic and miserable.

My body ached to have a real man inside me, satisfying me, pumping his seed deep inside me, using me hard, and yet my mouth felt so empty, I had no words to say, no lips ravishing mine, no brutal manhood taking me to sweet oblivion. My eyes feel hot as I remember the useless denials of my true desires, hidden away for so long. Such wanton, dark desires have always found their way to rise and consume me as I recognise the monster I truly am.

Tim was no use; worse, I could not talk to Dad, and even Basma did not know how to help me, so she begged Dad to help. Therefore, my Dad decided to take me one Friday, on the long drive to the Lakes to see my Grandparents, which is always the best time to talk; Dad didn't ask me to come, he told me I was going, and I knew better than to kick back and argue.

Dad's parents had accepted me as their own from the very start. They were wonderful, kind, and caring, the perfect Grandparents and sadly, both had died within three months of each other when I was seventeen. I like to think that Grandma died of a broken heart when Grandpa died.

They were buried together in the church grounds of a small hamlet in the Lake District where they had retired to after handing over the family law firm to Daddy.

The journey was an excuse to give us hours to talk in private without interference. Dad was one of the counties leading barristers and a very astute business person. His skill is asking questions and getting to the truth, even when someone does not want to admit it, even to themselves.

After hours of driving and talking about everything except the real reason for our journey, we arrived at the lakes; it was always so peaceful and stunningly beautiful in the early autumn.

We sat in the car, overlooking Grasmere, surrounded by the hills, looking down on the water, just holding hands. Dad was quiet, watchful, an expression on his face as if he would love me whatever I said. Then quietly, he said, "Katie, I love you more than life itself, but you must tell me what is wrong so we can fix it, and whatever that is, I will only ever love and support you."

"Nothings wrong," I said quietly, but a deep burning flush had already begun to stain my cheeks, so it was easy to see I was lying. "Katie, we have been through this before. You need to accept that I lost my wife and you lost your Mother to 'nothing's wrong', hiding your feelings, denying the turmoil you are going through only leads down a dark path, and I hoped you would know better... talk to me Katie, I cannot lose you to depression as well!" Daddy whispered, his eyes sad and bright with unshed tears.

It was then that I finally broke down, and through my tears, I almost shouted at him, "I'm a monster, is that what you want to hear! As I looked towards him accusingly.

"You are not a monster, Katie, but I need to know what's in your head; I love you, and I want to help you, but I cannot do that until you tell me what is troubling you so deeply?" Daddy said; he seemed desperate.