No Daughter of Mine

I thought I looked great.

I was wearing a tight blue tank top with no bra. My boobs were the size of honeycrisp apples, but the elastic from the top held them in place just fine, and you could barely even see the bumps of my nipples. My cutoff denim skirt (which I had worked on all weekend) also looked good. It looked great, actually. This was an awesome outfit.

I told Meg I'd be at her party by 7:30. She was the last of our group to turn 18, so we were going all out for her. Half the school was coming. We were meeting at the Old Gym, which is this weird old sports building that our student council converted to a party space. (We have a pretty cool high school.) There was going to be an Extreme Foursquare tournament, and a DJ, and they were probably going to sneak in kegs.

The only obstacle was my dad in the kitchen, making spaghetti. I'd have to get past him to reach the door. My dad was a big guy who was always smiling, but for the last year, he'd been getting kind of pushy with me. Like always trying to get me to eat meals with him, and telling me what colleges I have to apply to. I was pretty sick of it, and I really wasn't up for his opinions tonight.

I checked the closet for the jacket that would hide my outfit, and grabbed a knee-length black raincoat. Then I barged down the stairs talking fast, and aiming for the door. "Hey dad, smells great! I promised Meg I'd meet her at 7:30, so I gotta go. See you at breakfa--"

He grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back with a "Woah there!"

I stopped.

He looked me up and down. "Where's the rainstorm, girl?"

I didn't know how to answer, so I stuck to my original story. "Daaaad, I promised I'd meet Meg at 7:30, and I'm running late. I have to go."

He gestured to the kitchen. "I've prepared this wonderful meal for us, and you're just going to leave me all alone with it?" A large pot of water was on the stove, getting ready to boil. A smaller pot of spiced red sauce simmered next to it. On the counter, a loaf of bread was freshly sliced, and a bowl of olive oil sat beside it.

It actually smelled amazing, but I had places to be. And his hand was still on my shoulder.

"Sorry, Dad, I gotta go." I tried to twist away, and his grip tightened.

"You're staying right here young lady, and enjoying this delicious dinner with me." His voice was still friendly, but it was clear he wasn't asking.

I couldn't deal with this tonight. Not on Meg's birthday. So I did something I've never done with my father before. I yelled.

"NO. DAD. I DON'T NEED DINNER. I HAVE TO GO. NOW."

He flashed a look I had never seen before: surprise and anger and control. Maybe it was rage. "DON'T YOU DARE. EVER. YELL AT ME. DANIELLE MARIE THOMPSON." He used his free hand to grab my other shoulder and stood square in front of me, looking me up and down again. "And what the HELL are you wearing?"

I stood there frozen as he untied the belt of my raincoat and threw it open. His mouth dropped open, and he was quiet for the longest five seconds of my life. Then he looked me in the eye, and his voice went cold. "You're dressed like a slut."

"Dad..."

"Danielle, you are dressed like a goddamned slut. Do you just walk around town like this, inviting every guy you see to have their way with you?"

"Dad, no."

"No? Then do you even know what you're wearing? Do you know what it does to people? Jesus, how have I not taught you this? I make you these great meals, I buy you nice clothes, I'm helping you get into college, but I missed the part about how not to be a slut."

"Dad..."

"I've failed you as a father, haven't I? Clearly. If you're dressed like this, I've done something horribly wrong."

"Dad, you're a great fath..."

"SHUT UP," he barked in my face.

I went quiet. He was scaring me. This wasn't the dad I knew, and I didn't know what he would do next.

"I'm going to fix this right now. I failed you, but I can fix this. I'm going to be a good father, and teach you about the world." He seemed like he was talking more to himself than to me. "I'm a good father. I can teach you." He gripped the raincoat and yanked it down my arms, off of me. Then he grabbed my shoulders again and pushed me back against the door of the pantry. He held his grip.

He shook his head, looked me in the eye again, and started talking to me in a voice he would use for a ten year old, except that it still held a sharp edge. "When you dress like this, Danielle," he said, "you communicate to the men around you that you want to excite them. This arouses them, and it makes them give you the wrong kind of attention. It's basically an invitation for any man to fantasize about you."

He leaned in, his voice getting quieter. "And if you get close enough to them, it's also an invitation for them to do things do you."

"Dad. Stop," I said. "You're scaring me."

"Good," he said, back to his normal fatherly tone. "You should be scared. You'll be scared when they get close to you, because you won't be able to control them. They'll want to put their hands on you. Like this." He released his grip on my left shoulder and moved his hand to cup my breast.

"DAD!"

"SHUT UP. I'm teaching you a lesson. If you dress like this, things will happen to you. You need to understand this on a core level, because decisions to protect yourself need to be instinctive."

"Okay. I get it," I said.

"No," he said. "You clearly don't." He continued to touch my breast, kneading it gently with his big meaty hand. His thumb grazed circles over my nipple.

I struggled to break free. He moved his shoulder-gripping arm across the top of my chest like a restraint bar, and kept me pinned against the door. Then he moved his free hand to my other breast, and repeated the caresses.

I was panicking. "Dad, this is gross! Stop!"

"You know what's gross?" he said. "Some guy on the street you've never met and don't know anything about. He could be disgusting. He might have diseases. And if you're dressed like this in front of him, there's pretty much nothing you can do to stop him from being all over you, and doing whatever he wants."

He grabbed my breast firmly and pinched my nipple.

"Do you know what he wants to do to you?"

"Dad. No. Stop."

"You need to learn this, sweetie. Better to learn it from your father than from a guy on the street."

He reached down past my cutoff skirt and touched my inner thigh. I lost it and started shouting again.

"DAD! LET GO OF ME! LET. GO."

He slammed his arm deeper into my chest, so hard I was surprised he didn't break the door behind me. His eyes went crazy-looking, and he shouted at top volume, three inches from my face: "DANIELLE, ONE MORE WORD OUT OF YOU AND YOU'RE GOING TO WISH I WAS JUST A MAN OFF THE STREET."

I froze and held my breath. A sense of dread crawled over me, and I realized my thong was now soaked. This wasn't happening. This couldn't possibly be happening.

He pulled up my shirt and exposed my breasts. Then he leaned down and took one in his mouth, sucking on it like a hungry child.

This was happening.

I closed my eyes and tried to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. But all I could find in my head was the electric sensation of a mouth on one of my nipples and fingers massaging the other one. I didn't make a sound, but in my head I was moaning fiercely -- angry, scared, and on fire with tingling all over my body. I felt submerged in something animal, like I could tear his eyes out with my bare hands. If I could move.

He reached behind him to the bowl of olive oil on the counter and coated his right hand in it. Then he pushed his hand under my skirt, pulled my flimsy underwear aside, and jammed two slippery fingers inside of me without warning. He also pushed his whole heavy body against me. My breasts were crushed against his chest, and I could feel his erection hard against my thigh.

I screamed.

"QUIET!" He slid his restraining arm up to my throat and continued to pin me from there. At the same time, he pulled his fingers and body back for a moment, and then thrust in hard again, smashing me back against that pantry door with all of his weight. Choking for air, I shut up.

He held my gaze as he relaxed the pressure on my throat, and I tried to show him with a terrified look that I promised I would be quiet. He moved his arm back down to the top of my chest and pulled the rest of his body back a few inches, and I took a deep breath.

Then his fingers started moving. Fast. Hard. Finger fucking me. He bent his restraining arm down a bit so he could grab one of my nipples and roll it between his fingers.

"This is what happens when you dress like a slut," he muttered under his breath.

His fingers hooked forward and started rubbing my G-spot fast. The feeling was too much. I whimpered as quietly as I could, and my knees started to buckle. He pushed harder against me to hold me up, and kept pumping me furiously. I lost control and my mind went blank as an orgasm ripped through me, harder than anything I'd ever felt before. He kept rubbing me for another full minute, until I was twisting and panting and way past the point of understanding what was happening anymore.

He pulled out his hand and examined his fingers. They were soaked and dripping with my own juices. I squeezed my eyes shut, horrified at what just happened, and so relieved it was over. I just wanted to run to my room and wrap myself up tight in my covers and never leave.

That's when he slapped his wet hand hard against my cheek. I screamed again, and opened my eyes, only to find him unzipping his pants.

"You liked that," he sneered. "You obviously liked that. You dress like a slut because you LIKE what men do to you when they see you. How many strangers off the street have you fucked?"

I couldn't tell if he wanted an answer or if I was still supposed to stay quiet. It didn't matter. He wasn't waiting. He grabbed me, spun me around, and bent me over. Tears ran down my cheeks, and I watched them fall on the linoleum floor. I put my hand on the wall in front of me to stabilize myself, and braced myself for what was coming.

He pushed my skirt up over my hips, exposing my ass and my soaked, flimsy thong that may as well not have even been there. He gripped the thong and ripped it with tug. It fell to the ground, and wrapped around my right foot. Looking down, it was the only thing I could stare it. It was blue.

With his hands on my ass, he spread me open and pushed the tip of his cock against my pussy. Then he started to lecture me again: "No daughter of mine is going to leave the house dressing the way you are right now. This is for your own good, babygirl. You have to learn. I love you and your dad knows best."

He pushed himself all the way in.

It slid in easily. I was ready. I was so wet even my thighs were slicked and dripping. And with that orgasm still reverberating through my body, his first thrust felt like a rocket exploding inside me. My mind went blank again, and I screamed without being able to stop myself.

He slapped my ass, and the sting shut me up. He started pumping, slow and hard. Every movement was electric as his big belly and balls slapped against me in waves. My skin felt tortured with stings and tingles. My pussy convulsed in waves of coming, clenching around his cock. I started to taste blood from biting my own lip. I felt weightless.

He pounded me faster. His hands gripped my hips for leverage, and he pulled me into him just as hard as he pushed himself into me. I relaxed, and started to move like a rag doll being used for tug of war.

His intensity continued to build, and eventually he let out a roar of a moan as his whole body froze, and then pumped one last hard thrust into me. My mind returned enough to realize with terror that he wasn't wearing a condom. But I was on the pill. And as far as I knew he hadn't had sex in years. That last thought made me feel bad for him for about half a second, and I gave his cock one last kegel squeeze before he slipped out.

He let go of me. I slumped to the floor and looked back up at him. He looked confused -- maybe even scared -- unsure of what he had just done, and searching for what he should do next. After a long pause, his face changed back to certainty, and he nodded down at me.

"You're not going out tonight," he said. "Go get changed for dinner. We're having spaghetti."

He stared me down for a few more seconds, and then added a firm, "Okay?"

I gulped.

"Okay."