(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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[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."

[soursanguine]

Richard growls into her mouth, his eyes dark black while her words pour into his. He tilts his head away, teeth bared as he says, "You'd better never let me find out about anybody else between those legs, Salome. Never, ever." His fingers tangle in her hair, tightening through the locks and tugging her scalp. "You are mine, little girl. And if I ever hear about another man laying his hands on you he'll wind up in pieces."

His nostrils flare right along with fury that's exacerbated by arousal and alcohol and jealousy left pre-existing by the imaginary threat presented by Amanda. His takes her face in his hands, his mouth pressing against hers hard enough to bruise her lips. Fingers biting into her flesh, he scrapes his teeth against her mouth, her jaw, her throat, and one hand drops between her legs to sweep around the cuts, collect the blood upon his fingertips. He examines it in the low light, then runs it across her lips and his. That same hand darts back down, his fingers stroking the slick folds between her thighs, dancing over the flesh he's coming to know horrifically well.

"One night, when someone is between your legs, he'd better have a fucking signed permission slip from me to be there." The half-grin, half-sneer upon his lips is vicious as much as it is loving, and his forehead rests against hers. "I love you too much to stand to think such a thing, baby." His hand slips from her face to her throat, resting there, his thumb stroking firmly, affectionately, over her windpipe coming to rest in the notch that decorates her flesh like a jewel.

Lifting his hand to his lips, he licks his fingertips clean and begins to tear open his belt, the buckle jangling crystal clear in the room. Every kiss along her cheek and throat is furious and hungry, his words murmured frantically between the sounds of his lips and breath. "Mine through and through, my Salome. Not just this body, but that beautiful, wicked mind, and that heart. My little girl, there's no escaping me even if you wanted to."

[sweetsalome]

"Oh but daddy, don't you want me to grow up one day and find a nice young man to settle down with?" Oh she likes that. She likes his teeth out and his temper going and his jealousy all out to see like he is putting on a coat. Yes, she isn't the only one, he is as bad as she is, so desperate for possession and ownership. She wanted to destroy him when he brought that woman over, wanted to destroy that woman, and now look who wants to rip the world apart. Even as wet springs to her eyes at the sharp tug of his fingers in her hair she grins wickedly, wanting to egg him on, she is a vicious little fox and she'll tear at that jealousy cut until he open and bleeding.

"Some nice young man to climb on top of me every night in some plain vanilla missionary style fuck until I fake it. Your son in law. Wouldn't you like that, dad?" She can taste blood, teeth shredding the inside of her lips as she reaches out to grab his sides, tugging at the fabric of his button down shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his slacks as he feeds her from his fingers. She nips and reaches forward to suck at his fingertips, at her bottom lip, whimpering when he takes his fingers away from her.

"My cunt may be yours, but you're not my boyfriend, dad. Didn't you say that?" He is going to crush her throat. She can feel that as his fingers reach over to caress her, she can feel her pulse hammer against his thumb as she continues to work his dress shirt up and off of him. Her heart is racing, blood running from the cuts he has left on her, down the crease of her legs, she is sure it is mingling with the other wet part of her, aching for him, especially, especially when she hears his belt buckle.

Her nails tear at his skin in order to get rid of his shirt and of course to find the waist of his slacks, she needs what she has, needs it. "I don't ever want to escape you. Never, ever, I love you too much, I need you, you're my oxygen."

[soursanguine]

Jesus Christ, somebody's really asking for it. Fury burns through him as if replacing all the blood in his body, the very suggestion obscene. Blasphemy. He nearly trembles with the rage, and his hand wraps around her throat, squeezing tight around her windpipe.

"No, fuck, no." His teeth bare like an animal's. "I want you like this forever. I want you mine forever. Even if you find some stupid little boy I finally approve of, you'll still be mine." His nose wrinkles and presses to hers like a rabid wolf staring down an unruly pup. "Even if you marry him, even then you and I will still fuck, make love, play together."

After his free hand works with hers to get his trousers open, Richard shoves them down around his knees and slides home, moaning her name. Both his hands push her back against the mattress, the one from her neck moving to let her have her air. His presses a hard kiss against her mouth, his lungs pouring air into hers. "I detest the idea of you growing up to marry some boring salaryman, as much as I hate the thought of you letting some scummy little lowlife fool around with you. Any other man touches you and I'll make you watch while I take his teeth."

Truer words have never been spoken.

His hands shift down to take her by the thighs and shift the angle of her pelvis, his hips working in sharp, hard thrusts that make the mattress cry out beneath them. "No, Salome, I'm not your boyfriend. I'm far more to you than that, worth more. I'm your father."

[sweetsalome]

His reaction in some way is stunning to her. The thought never entered her head that they would stop what they are doing, no matter what. No matter if she took on a lover, or if he took on a dozen lovers, or finally found some man that he could stomach long enough to give his blessing. Even if that were to happen she couldn't stop. No, she could never, ever stop this game that they are playing.

Fucking. Making love.

She can't fucking breathe. Mouth open, she tries to breathe in what she can with his fingers around her throat. The good thing about his grip is that it is keeping her from talking. From taunting him. Whispering dark little whispers about how she will one day grow up and realize how much of a monster he is for fucking her over, and over, and carving his name into her like some college girlfriend or a favorite tree. To hear him make these demands, out loud, in words she can hear, thrills her. It is a bigger declaration of love then he has ever managed before. He wants her. No matter what he wants her.

His hands allow her to gasp for air, his cock demands that she does so. Back arching, legs spread she takes him and oh heaven on earth does he feel good. It feels like it has been years since he has fucked into her. Legs spread, wide, wide to let him take her as he wants, fingers reaching for him pulling him into that kiss, and kissing and kissing his teeth and brutal words even as she breaks those same kisses for air.

"Do you really think I'd ever stop fucking you? Not ever. Do you think that if I took a man to bed I wouldn't think of you the whole fucking time? And when he gets excited about how fucking wet I am, do you think it will be because of him, or because I am wanting you instead, pretending that it's my daddy's cock inside of me and not his."

[soursanguine]

Some men make grand gestures and sentimental declarations to show they care. Richard is not some men. Richard commits murder and slings threats that are only sometimes hyperbolic, and lays claim to what's his like Alexander the Great tearing through Persia.

"That's right, baby. That's exactly right, you'd damn well better not." She shouldn't take another man to bed at all, ever, the idea makes him so angry it nearly makes him go blind. "You'd better not let him think that he's responsible for getting you wet, if you ever dare to do such a fucking thing." His grip on her thighs tighten with bruising pressure.

Every slam of his cock within her is twice as vicious as the last, his hips slamming against hers with the kind of pressure tha could crack a pelvis. Each beat of his heart pushes more fury through him, the adrenaline burning through his veins like white hot fire. His mouth nuzzles against her throat, starting there before he kisses a line down to her breasts. The way she squeezes around him makes his lose his head as much as the fury does, and his teeth sink into her flesh on instinct while his fingers bite into her skin.

Boy, there's going to be some eyebrows raised at the next swim team practice. Especially that new wound on her inner thigh. Not that many people are bound to notice, but there's always a fair risk. The very idea spurs another grin from him, and he lowers his head over hers. "It's not just some pissant little boy who's going to be able to see that scar, is it? You spend so much time in a bathing suit, princess, what are you going to do? What will you say?"

[sweetsalome]

He is going to shake her brains loose. Not that they were ever firmly attached in there to begin with but now he is going to shake them out of her ears and leave her a puddle of nothing on the hotel bed. He makes her ache. He makes her ache in so many ways, through her bones, down into her soul he makes her ache and long and want for something she can never, ever have from him. He makes her ache physically. Her cunt can barely take the way he slams into her, and her hips are going to be sore tomorrow that's for damn sure. She can't ask him to stop, she can't ask him to slow down.

All that furry, all that violence excites her, gets her lunging up off the bed at him, nails in his shoulders and on his back as he kisses her and she kisses back. Vicious kisses, teeth sinking down into his bottom lip, fingers tugging at his hair, his bicep. Pain. Like a kitten attacking an older cat, she uses just what she can to inflict on him just a taste of what he is giving to her.

She hasn't even thought about the swim meet. "I think I'll ask them why they are staring at my cunt, that's what I think I'll say to them." She smirks up at him through the rough thrusts he is inflicting on her. "Do you think I should tell them you did it?"

[soursanguine]

Oh, it's a terrible idea, he's going to have to turn Delilah down for at least a week while his wounds heal, but it's all completely worth it. The trail of fire left by her nails and her teeth like little nails, all of it is glorious. He practically snarls, head jerking with the way she tears at his hair; his hands firmly latch upon her hips and he rolls, lying upon his back and keeping his grip upon her hips to bounce her in his lap.

The only time they leave is to frame her face and draw her back down toward his, his hips hammering up into hers with every bounce down. The sensation explodes up to his skull and back time and again, the sight too much for him to bear. He could crawl up inside her, rest behind her ribcage to devour her heart, he'd like nothing better.

Talk about being his forever.

One hand gropes over, grabbing for the lamp to flip it on so he can see her in better light, from the curves of her lithe body to the blood-smeared carving upon her thigh. Richard moans sharply in appreciation for the very sight of it and the stains it's left upon the sheet, the mark further perfecting her already incredible form.

He laughs darkly at her question, nipping sharply upon her lips. "Mm, saying things like that you might get in trouble." His tongue slithers into her mouth. "Of course not, wicked girl, not unless you want to drag daddy down right along with you. They wouldn't understand the kind of fun you and i have playing together, baby."