(Untitled)

[sweetsalome]

No joke, Salome changed her mind sixteen times when trying to decided if she wanted to meet her birth mom.  It wasn't that she was scared but there was a real thought and fear that she would just lose it in the middle of the conversation and she didn't want to lose it.  Her father would get upset at Amanda and it wasn't this woman's fault that

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[soursanguine]

Richard has gotten through his third vodka tonic by the time his food is gone. After some struggle, he makes the decision to switch to water. It may not be awkward for Salome, but it's awkward for him; mostly, because he has nothing to say. Now and then, he pats Salome's thigh beneath the table, brushes his shoe up against hers. He finds himself overcome by the need to touch her, to squeeze her, to remind her and himself that she is his, and that this woman across the table means nothing.

He bristles at the suggestion that Salome should look her up. The source of his hate is jealousy. As Salome detests Delilah because she fears that her father will be swept away by this strange woman, so too does Richard loathe his one-time screw. It's not as if he feels that he's at risk of losing Salome to this woman, because such a thing is impossible. But if something were to happen; if she were to get the urge to go off in a fit of pique; or if she were to cop to his hobbies and view her father in a new, horrifying light, she might have somewhere to run off to.

He hates loose ends.

And it's the simple fact of the matter that this woman isn't worth the pleasure of her company, or his. But he keeps his mouth shut, saying nothing, staring pleasantly into the middle-distance, picking up the check for the entire table as the waiter comes by, because that's what a gentleman does. Beneath his calm exterior boils a cauldron of jealousy which he knows to be irrational--but he's three strong vodka tonics into the evening, and if Salome is allowed to have ridiculous spells of jealousy about Delilah, then he's more than welcome to ones of his own.

"I'm glad," he says pleasantly, his pronunciation cautious and slow, "that you ladies have hit it off so well."

[sweetsalome]

Amanda looks a little surprised at him picking up the check, she wasn't expecting it and was actually reaching for her purse when he grabbed the waiter and took care of the bill. "Thank you for dinner, it was nice." Richard can have his simmering jealousy, neither woman appears to be aware of t and if Salome were too find out about it, she would be a little bit amused, and that would certainly explain where she gets her attitudes from in that regard.

Plus its a little flattering to have him jealous and worked up over her.

Salome isn't interested in starting any relationship with this woman, maybe a card at Christmas if she remembers, but it doesn't appear to Sal that there is anything between them but DNA. Amanda doesn't appear to want to come visiting or custody rights, and Sal is old enough to refuse to abide by anything that might be imposed. This dinner appears to be another one night stand for Amanda.

That could all change of course.

Salome stands when her birth mom does and they exchange hugs like the did before, and murmured words about how nice it was to meet one another.

If anything Sal leaves knowing how lucky she is to have a wonder father who will always be there for her, no matter what.

[soursanguine]

A gentleman is a gentleman is a gentleman, even when he's filled with poison. There are appearances to maintain, and there's a bigger person for him to be. Even his generosity in covering the check and the tip is spiteful--'look at how much better than you I am.'

Even a card at Christmas is too much, in his opinion, but it's none of his business. He'll just have to make sure she sends it from her mother's house, he doesn't want this bitch getting her hands on his address. No goddamn way.

Richard stands after the women and stands politely behind, looking askance until they part ways; as she begins to make her way back to him, he nods toward the old woman and turns to lead the way out of the restaurant and to the elevators. As he hits the 'up' button, he glances to Salome with a mild smile.

"See, baby? I told you it'd go fine. Seems to me that went better than fine." As he steps into the elevator, his grin grows crooked. "In more ways than one, too."

[sweetsalome]

"Mmmmm you were right, you're always right, dad," her arm around his middle she presses close into him as he steps into the elevator. She hits the 'door closed' button a few times to make sure that no one follows them and when the door shuts she slips her hand into his pocket so she can rub his cock through the thin lining of his pants pocket.

"Naughty, naughty daddy, finger fucking me like that at dinner. I wanted to scream so loud, so that everyone knew what you were doing too me." Up on her toes she kisses his mouth hard as she fondles and rubs him, hand confined by the secret cover of his pocket. Anyone would be able to tell what she was doing if they were I the box with them but it would give her a little more time to react if the doors were to suddenly open and a family step inside with them.

"I think I should punish you for being such a pervert. Maybe I should play with you all night since you can't keep your hands to yourself. Or maybe I shouldn't play with you at all, clearly you need to learn some manners." And she gives him a broad grin.

[soursanguine]

Now that's what he likes to hear. Of course he's always right. He grins lopsidedly as she loops her arm around his waist, the warmth of her body divine. Not near as divine as her hand, though, that sends a sudden electric shock exploding straight up into his skull while muted pleasure radiates from his trousers.

When that kiss arrives on his lips, he groans into it, his tongue pushing hard against hers as though to conquer the territory afforded by her mouth. He inhales sharply, easy to arouse considering the goings-on at dinner and the poisonous jealousy that swims around in his mind. His hand latches to the nape of her neck, remaining even as she pulls away, that hand unbearable against his hardening cock.

"You know you wanted it." He grins, the first genuine one since her covert orgasm, and he yanks her hand from his pants only to push her back against the elevator wall, hands pinning her wrists against the metal. "You spread your legs for me the second I touched you, and that little cunt of yours was so wet by the time I was done I'm surprised you didn't ruin your skirt. It turned you on, sitting across from her while daddy's fingers were inside you."

He ducks his head to push a hard kiss to her mouth. "You couldn't live without my cock after something like that and you know it. Hell, you can't even keep your hands off of it now and we're not back in our room." His teeth scrape against her lip and he pulls away only as the doors slide open, straightening his jacket before leading the way down the hall. "But if you insist on cutting off your nose to spite your face, baby..."

[sweetsalome]

He has such a strong kiss, and strong hand on the nape of her neck, twisting and bending her in such a way to make her gasp and groan against his lips, her hand squeezing around his cock. He gets so hard, so fucking fast, and as much as she liked playing nurse to him she loves it when he gets so, so hard, he could pound nails. And when he starts stalking to her, the words cut right through her and her hips arch up against him, rubbing and grinding against his thigh till he pulls away.

"What I want doesn't matter, it wasn't proper, daddy. You should behave yourself when we're in public." She was so god damn wet and wanted him so god damn bad. She should have just gotten up and taken him right then and there. What would have Amanda said? Probably nothing since she would be so stunned. But then afterward, well afterward come what may.

"Yes, but could you live without my cunt after something like that?" He pulls away and he is so good at that, why can't he so obviously need her like she needs him? She is just a few steps behind him, her fingers behind her back trying hard not to follow and grab at him.

[soursanguine]

Oh, he needs her. He needs her bad. But the secret to being a grown-up is having self-control, and being able to resist what teenagers can't. Or so he's heard, anyway. His general opinion is that self-control is overrated--but when it comes to tormenting his darling Salome, he finds it a delightful ability. Particularly when he can restrain himself while she grinds herself against his thigh like the desperate little animal she is.

"That goes double for you. Cumming in public, Salome, for shame. And to think you accuse me of misbehaving. Tsk." He grins and drags her close for another kiss as they make their way down the hall, his vodka-bittered lips pushing against hers while his arm fits around the small of her back. "Besides. Daddies are allowed to misbehave."

He shoots her a roguish grin, one brow arching toward his hairline. "I don't know, princess, are you really interested in finding out?" With a few swift motions, Richard swipes the keycard and pushes open the door, all but dragging Salome inside. He yanks her tight against his body while the door swings shut, grinning down into her face. "You did such a lovely job controlling yourself, though, you're only encouraging me to do it again. I have to make sure you know whose girl you are, babydoll."

[sweetsalome]

"For shame, for shame," she lowers her voice to mimic his sound, her eyes locked on his as his arm wraps around her and she falls against his chest. She could get drunk off of his mouth, he tastes like liquor and tonic. She will get drunk off of his mouth, as if her tongue could lap at the vodka that he has absorbed and drank through the night. She could. She will. She will try. He pulls her to the room and she finds herself slipping from her sandals and kicking them into the room before she is even in it.

By the time the door swings shut she is reaching under her skirt to push at her skivvies in order to get them off. His eyes look hollow in the dim of the room, even with the faint glow of the lamp lights on the street under their little balcony he looks dark and vicious, teeth flashing white against the grim and gray of everything else. "Who's girl am I?" She knows, she knows very, very well, but she is suddenly struck with a need to see how deep his need goes, how much he wants her. Stepping out of her skivvies she keeps her hands on his biceps, not groping him as she usually would, or reaching up to kiss him as she needs to do so badly.

"You should show me who's I am. You should make me scream and you should make me beg. You should even make me hurt as much as you make me come. Will you do that for me, daddy?"

[soursanguine]

Every second she doesn't move her hands from his arms is another second his entire body burns, from the marrow of his bones to the surface of his flesh. There's fire raging in his eyes the very second she asks that question. Even though she's just playing, it's funny how it can incite such wild desire, such a frantic need to remind her.

Then she asks him to make her hurt, and he all but snarls. He grips her hip, burying his mouth in the hollow of her throat. "I can do that, baby, but you have to trust me." Tongue drifting out against her pulse, he nips his way up to her ear. "Because if I'm hurting you as much as I make you cum, well, that's an awful lot of hurting."

His hand tightens around her arm and he chuckles low, pulling her by the arm only to shove her toward the bed. He sends her stumbling and stalks after her, shrugging his jacket from his shoulders and leaving it abandoned while he catches up to her and kisses his way down the back of her neck. One hand lands upon her breast, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and he nips the lobe of her ear with a growl. "You're mine, princess. You know damn well you're mine. Not some boy's, not some other man's, not that old whore's, not Susan's. Mine, Salome."

[sweetsalome]

Head back, her fingers in the dark hair of the head that is currently buried against her throat. Fuck. It's his lips, his teeth. He is going to make her scream and scream. Does she trust him. She trusts him more then she trust that the sun will rise in the East and set in the West. A gasp in and she tugs on the dark of his hair. "Yes, I trust you. I trust you more then anything, dad."

Yes. She trusts him. Even when he shoves her to the bed and she stumbles backward, her legs hitting the bed and sending her sprawling toward the bed. A glance back as he shrugs from his jacket. Stalking. His whole body dark in the gloom of the room. It sends a shiver down the line of her spine. Vicious. He will rip her apart, she knows it, she feels it from the tip of her hairs down to her toes.

Pushing back against him she finds her head falling forward as he kisses and presses into her body. Fuck. Sometimes she forgets that he is her father, sometimes she views him so clearly as a lover. Purposely she reminds herself that he is her father, that his sperm created her. "Daddy," she presses her ass up against him, grinding as grips at the cover of the bed. "How do I know that I'm yours?"

[soursanguine]

Trusting him is a terrible thing for anyone to do, but it makes his heart beat like a drum to hear how much she believes in him. It's satisfying, makes him glow for joy. His blood pounds with power as much as adrenaline, to know that he can have such control over her, her mind, her body.

"You know you're mine because I say so. Because my blood is the same as yours." He yanks her top over her head and tosses it away before jerking her skirt down around her feet, his hands moving everywhere and anywhere at once. The sight of her naked has his head swimming worse than ten vodka tonics could hope to. Gritting his teeth as his cock throbs in his trousers, Richard slides a hand into his pocket. When it comes it, it's with his little black-handled friend tucked in the palm of his hand, and the blade ejects with a sinister snap.

He makes damn sure that she sees it, waving it before her eyes before scraping the flat of the blade down the line of her jaw. "And you're mine because I can do whatever I want with you. Because you trust me. Because you know that I love you, and that I would never, ever hurt you in a bad way, would I, little girl?" The tip of the blade drifts down her throat, down her collarbone, and his mouth waters while his eyes bore into hers.

"You know daddy will only ever hurt you in a nice way." His damp mouth brushes against hers, tongue slithering against her lips. "Maybe to leave a nice little mark on you so that you can know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you belong to nobody but him."

[sweetsalome]

She trusts him because she doesn't know any other way. He has never given her a reason not to trust him. He is her father, he has taken care of her since she was little. Cuddled her and cleaned her up, from A to Z. To say that she doesn't trust him, well, that would be a bit of a slap in the face for him wouldn't it? Plus, she knows he can't do anything too drastic to her, people would start asking questions, if he was to brutalize her to a point outside general play people would notice. If she were to disappear, people would certainly notice. Except her mind doesn't even go down that road. It doesn't even enter her head that he could kill her.

Even when he shows her the knife.

The air feels so good and smooth on her skin, as if she was wearing a bear suit and not just a tank top and skirt. Without the fabric she can breathe better, freer, her skin gulping it down as her heart hammers in her chest and her brain swims in all those beloved chemicals that release when she is aroused and in need. Those drugs that make her feel higher then a kite. That sort of put a damper on any fear she should feel when he shows her that wicked blade of his. His blood is her blood, and her body is his to do as he wants.

That is an epically freeing feeling.

"Yes," yes to everything. To their blood being the same, to her body being his, because she trusts him and she loves him and knows that he loves her the same.

"Yes," because she knows that he would never, ever hurt her in a bad way - even though her mouth feels like cotton and she feels like the lamb before the slaughter. Her eyes lock on his as she pulls away, clawing at the bed sheets and using them to pull her further up on to the bed.

[soursanguine]

It's not in him to kill her. Not unless she were to really cross him, like if she discovered the nature of his proclivities and turned him into the police. Then he'd consider it, but even then, there are fates crueler than death for such a transgression. No, he wouldn't hurt her badly, not even if he pushed himself to the very limits of his own control.

That body is too beautiful to break too badly.

The 'yes's that breathe from her mouth like soft puffs of air send shivers down his spine. The hand that doesn't hold the knife drifts down her body, over her breasts and ribs and shoulder, his palm drinking in every inch of her skin he's capable of touching. While his lips work against hers, the knife meanders down, over the curve of her breast. Then she pulls away, as if luring him after her, and he climbs upon the mattress with her, lowering his head to kiss down her breasts and ribs while the blade dances over her flesh, light as a whisper.

"This is mine," he murmurs between kisses, "every beautiful inch of it, darling girl. Oh, Salome." His teeth graze over her flesh. "I love you so, little naiad. I love you impossibly."

When he gets to her hip, he pauses, his hand sliding between her thighs, between those damp lips. He shudders with desire, the tip of the knife sweeping ultra-soft down the curve of her hip and the flesh of her thigh. Oh, decisions, such decisions, the aesthetics must be perfect. The hip, easier seen in the mirror? Or the inner thigh, better hidden and more suggestive?

The quandaries faced by an artist.

[sweetsalome]

Every time they are together she feels that same delicious, horrible feeling creeping up her spine. That thought that gnaws at her brain like a hungry dog. This is wrong. This isn't right. Her father shouldn't be touching her like this. His hand feels like velvet on her skin. Impossibly long fingers, wide palm, the brush of his hand seems to cover every inch of her in the shortest number of passes possible. His caress breaks her skin out into goose bumps, making her hair stand on edge as he takes her in, over the parts of her that no father should touch.

Breasts. Stomach. The flat lines of her and the curves. Finally in between her legs.

"Oh fuck." On her elbows, she finds her head leaning back as she opens herself up to him. Legs, torso, chest, everything. Everything is his, his to touch, to play with, to decorate as he sees fit.

She doesn't know which is more tantalizing and erotic, his kiss of the kiss of the blade over her skin. It has been years since she last took a breath. That's what it feels like, except when his fingers finally find her cunt and then, then she can breathe and then her hips can arch up into his fingers, his kiss.

"Daddy," she breathes out his name, her fingers reaching for him, for his dark hair and down the line of his face so she can feel his mouth move over her, can feel him speak. "I love you. I need you. I don't need any one else in the world but you, you're my universe. Please."

Please what? She doesn't even know, all she knows is that she needs it. Needs him. What he can give her.

[soursanguine]

The way her body sings beneath his touch has a way of twisting his insides up. The way she curses, too, unable to resist him, to resist the pleasure of their horrifying situation. She makes him feel absolutely, deliciously vile, and it's as freeing to him as his possession of her body is to her. Even with his clothes on he feels bare down to the bone when he touches her, when he coaxes those beautiful noises from her mouth, and it makes him wild.

Those sweet little pleas; Richard groans softly against her flesh, each inhalation filling his lungs with more of her. He glances up to her, his dark eyes finding hers while his head lifts against the palm of her hand. That's what he likes to hear. Exactly what. "Of course, babydoll. Of course, of course." He twists to kiss her wrist a thousand times, then, one hand firm upon her thigh to keep it still.

"Stay still, baby," he murmurs, smiling softly as he glances up to her. "Breathe out." His lips purse against her inner thigh, just grazing her labia before focusing back upon the slightly chaster portion of her. Then, lifting his head away, he draws the tip of the blade over her inner with expert precision. It cuts into her flesh, drawing a red curve, then another, the motions natural as if he were signing his initials with a brush.

His skill with a blade is truly uncanny. Between the 'R' and the 'V' he kisses her flesh, his lips sleeping across the blood that blooms from the cut. "This is proof that you're mine," he says while he starts into the second letter, connected to the first. "As much as any work of art I've produced. My beautiful little masterpiece." The second half takes less time than the first, and when it's done the wound entire is a few inches long and a few high.

His tongue drags along the carving and he groans, the metal taste of her blood sweet in his mouth. "Oh, princess." Another shudder tears through him and he sets the knife aside, lifting his head to press a kiss to her mouth. "Even your blood is perfect."

[sweetsalome]

Her heart stops beating. The whole world stops spinning and she stares at him. Between her legs, the tawny, long limbs, where he is supposed to be, fully clothed, and that just makes her want so much more degrading. Of course she is naked for her father, she can't help it, the needy, desperate slut who will spread her legs gladly for the man who raised her because she is unable to stop herself. She can't stop, she can't look away, she can't breathe she just stares and stares as he takes his time examining her, finding a spot, the right spot, and he'll know it when he sees it.

She can picture the moment when a new lover is between her legs, in that same position and moves their fingers over the white scar tissue, tracing the letters with a fingertip, asking who left that there, what does it stand for. That surge of want to tell them. To tell them that one evening after she had turned seventeen her father knelt between her bare legs and carved his initials into her cunt because she begged him to. After he was finished he fucked her and fucked her until she couldn't walk, till her cunt ached and her tongue felt like it was coated with cotton in her mouth.

Yes, oh fuck yes, half the pleasure of getting this from him knows that at some point she will have to explain it. And the look that person will have when she does will be fantastic.

It burns. The breaking of skin, it hurts and burns like some angry paper cut on steroids and she finds herself hissing out and by the time he is on the V she is gasping and nearly trembling under his skilled fingers and the blade that he uses on her. She can feel her whole body bleeding, that's what it feels like, as if those few cuts are letting out all of the blood in her body, or it could be how wet she is getting in between her legs. Maybe a little bit of both.

Her hand falls from his hair and curls around the nape of his neck as he leans up and she leans down to kiss him, kiss him hard, her tongue sweeping out over his in order to taste herself on his tongue. And she groans. "Daddy," into his mouth, against his lips. "One night, when someone else is between my legs, I'll get to tell them who put those there. I'll get to tell them what a disgusting little slut I am for my dad's cock."