Autumn pt. 3

I was shaking from the cold, the humiliation…and the fear. My father had caught me playing with myself in the bathtub, and he had snapped. After he had pulled me up by the hair so that I was kneeling in the bathtub, he had slapped and punched me until I started crying. Then, with a death grip on my hair, he had dragged me out of the bathtub and forced me to stand in front of the bathroom mirror. He made me look at myself, naked, soaking wet and freezing cold from the water he had just doused me with. “Take a good look at yourself, you stupid little whore,” he’d screamed as he shook my head to force my hair out of my eyes, “you’re disgusting! So now I know what you’ve been doing all day while I’m gone! You laze around like the ugly slut you are, while I’m working my ass off to provide for this family! Are you proud of yourself, whore? Are you?” And with that, he started hitting me again with one hand while he pulled my hair to keep me still with the other. I realized he was drunk; very drunk. He kept asking me if I was happy, if I was a proud whore, and telling me how ashamed he was of me. My heart was racing, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I kept slipping on the wet floor as a result of his blows.

He dragged me by the hair from the bathroom to the basement. I tried to keep up with him, but he was going too fast and was swinging me, so I kept slipping. So I was half-dragged down two flights of stairs naked, and thrown onto the basement floor. The heating vent was shut, so the basement was freezing cold, or at least it felt that way to me. The cold and the fear together combined to make me shake enough that I was feeling muscles twitch and jerk involuntarily all over my body, and I was covered in goose bumps. Dad kept screaming at me, hitting me, and kicking me as I scrambled pathetically on the floor to get away from him and to cover myself. “Whore! Dirty, stupid whore,” he screamed over and over, “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!” Too late, I realized what he was doing; he had been shepherding me over to the far wall, where his weights were; I realized this when I rolled backward after a slap, right into his large barbell that sat on the floor. When I realized he was going to hurt me bad, I tried to get up and run—the first time I had ever tried to run. And that only made him angrier; he brought me back down to the ground with a sharp punch in the stomach that knocked the wind out of me. “Just you try that again, whore,” he spat, “and there’ll be one less dirty whore in this world. Try it again if you don’t believe me.”

I believed him.

“Grab the bar!” He yelled, and I obeyed. He grabbed my side and flipped me over, so that I was lying face up. He told me to not move or he would kill me, and he moved away to get some rope. I knew already that this wasn’t going to be good; he always wanted me face down, so that he could hit my ass, back, and legs. Never like this. I tried to think of how I could get away, but before any real thoughts could make it into my head, he was back and looping the rope around my wrists. As he pulled the ropes tight, I felt hopeless, as if I were watching my own coffin lid close on top of me. I couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t catch my breath enough to speak. He walked away and came back over toward me, carrying one of the heavy weights that weren’t already on the big barbell. I thought for a second that he was going to throw it on me, or smash my face in, but he set it down far to my side, and then brought the other one and laid it to my other side. “Daddy, I’m sorry…” I tried to apologize, when I saw the cold look in his eyes, the rest of the words caught in my throat. “You’re going to be a lot sorrier once I’m done with you, you dirty little bitch,” he said with an expressionless face. He grabbed my right ankle and pulled it over to the weight to my right, tied a rope around my ankle, and then around the weight, so that my leg was immobile because the weight was too heavy for me to move, even in a more advantageous position. He then did the same thing to my left ankle on the other side, so that I was practically doing a split lying on my back. Then he left the basement.

I lay there shivering, my head racing and unable to think, all at the same time. He was going to kill me. It would be his way to do it as slowly and painfully as possible. I started hyperventilating. That was why he wanted me on my back; so he could hurt my front bad and kill me. Oh god, help me, I prayed; please dear god, help me. If I had thought there was any possibility that Paul could rescue me, I would have nursed that hope for all it was worth, but there was no hope. By my panicked calculations, he wouldn’t even be home for a few more hours, but even if he were at home this very minute, he’d have no way to know I was about to be killed. He would never guess, because there was so much I hadn’t told him about my home life because it was embarrassing to me. Like this, I thought; if I live through this, I won’t be able to tell him about this, either…

Dad came back downstairs with something in a bag; I was torn between being relieved it wasn’t the knife I’d expected, and the fear over what it could be. He stopped on the way back over to me to pick up the thick leather belt from the wall; I started praying again, furiously as my heart pounded so hard that I thought it was going to jump out of my chest; so hard I could feel my pulse shooting painfully through my jaw.

Daddy stood over me, holding the belt looped in half in his hand. “What are you?” he demanded. I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t make any sound come out. “WHAT ARE YOU?” he screamed, raising the belt. “I…I’m…a…a…whore,” I choked. “Damn right you are,” he said as he knelt down to grab my hair again, “And I’m gonna teach you a lesson, whore. A lesson you’re going to remember for a long time. Do you want to learn your lesson, whore?” “Y…yes sir,” I stammered. I knew when he expected an answer, and he wanted one then. “I’m gonna teach you not to play with yourself, whore,” he said as he moved his face inches from mine, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “And when I’m done, you’re gonna thank me—do you understand?” I said I did. His eyes left my face and moved down my body, “What in the hell is that!” he yelled; I tried to look down, but he was holding my head too tightly. He turned back to glare at me. “What is the meaning of that?” “I…I don’t know,” I answered, not understanding what he was talking about. “Of that,” he said, raising my head so that I was looking down my body at the far wall. I couldn’t see anything amiss, and was careful in case this was one of his traps that he sometimes set for me. “Of THAT,” he screamed as he poked the side of my breast with his finger, “what is the meaning of that, you dirty slut?” I stared at him blankly; I didn’t know what to say. “Your nipples are hard, whore,” he said as he pulled my hair to make me look at him, “are you turned on by this, whore? Why are your nipples hard?”

“I…I don’t know,” I said as I started to cry. “You don’t know? You don’t know if you’re turned on?” “No—Daddy—I…I…” I stammered, trying to understand and explain, “I’m not. I’m not, really!” “Shut up, slut; I saw you playing with your nipples. You liked it, didn’t you? And now you’re letting your slut nature take over while I’m trying to discipline you!” “No, Daddy! No! It isn’t…I didn’t…I…” “SHUT UP, WHORE!” he screamed, “you should be ashamed of yourself, getting turned on by your own father like this, but you aren’t, are you? Well, I’m gonna teach you to be ashamed! And I’m starting with your dirty little whore nipples!” And with that, he dropped my head to the floor, and moved down; holding the belt with his right hand, he pinched my nipple with the other hand. “You like that, whore? You like that?” “n…n…no…no,” I managed to gasp out, “no sir!” He pulled my nipple up and started twisting it; “How about that? You like it yet, whore?” “No, sir,” I whined through my tears. “I think you do,” he said, “I think you like it, and you’re learning to be ashamed of your whore nature! I think you’re lying. Are you a lying little slut?” “No, Daddy…please stop,” I begged through sobs, “please stop Daddy, please!” But he put one hand onto each of my breasts, and started roughly tugging and twisting my nipples. I broke out into hysterical sobs from the pain and the humiliation, and he started getting rougher with my nipples, pinching the tips sharply, and slapping my breasts. “I think we need to teach these little slut nipples a lesson first,” he hissed, “do you want me to teach your little slut nipples their lesson?” “Oh, god, no…Daddy…” He cut my pleas off with a sharp slap on my breast. “Do you want me to teach your little slut nipples a lesson?” he demanded again. I tried to beg him again to stop, and he landed another stinging slap on my breast. I realized that he wanted me to say yes, and it was only going to get worse until I did. “Do you want me to teach your little slut nipples a lesson?” he screamed. “Yes, Daddy,” I forced myself to say to appease him. “Yes Daddy, what?” “Yes, Daddy, I want you to teach my little slut nipples a lesson,” I said as I gave myself over to wracking sobs.

Dad said that was much better, and set to his lesson. I screamed as he pinched my nipples hard, pulled them far out, then twisted them, and let them drop. Over and over he did it, as he told me how bad I was, how slutty, whorish, and lazy. He was pulling hard enough that my chest was being raised painfully off the ground; each pinch brought screams from my mouth that I couldn’t stop. He pulled my nipples up hard and high and twisted them back and forth more violently than ever, and made me admit that I was a dirty whore. I wanted to die from the embarrassment of everything. He threatened to get his pliers, crush my nipples, and twist them off if I didn’t admit that I was a whore with every pinch, slap, and hit. Over and over, he slapped my breasts, until they were reddened and painful. Then he stood above me with his belt and told me that with each lash, I was to say “I’m a dirty whore”, followed by the number of the lash. Then he landed twenty lashes on each breast. I know because I counted them just like he said to. By the time he was finished, I was gasping for air in between my screams.

“Now it’s time for us to teach that dirty whore pussy a lesson, isn’t it?” my Dad asked, “And you’ve been looking forward to it, haven’t you, baby slut?” I was too beaten to do anything other than what he wanted. “Yes, sir,” I answered, dutifully. “Yes, sir what?” “Yes, sir, it’s time to teach my dirty whore pussy a lesson,” I responded immediately so he wouldn’t hit me. “And have you been looking forward to it?” I didn’t know how to answer; “yes, sir…I mean…no!” “Which is it, slut? Are you looking forward to having your Daddy hurt your pussy?” I decided to try the truth first; “No sir.” “And why not?” “Because I don’t want you to hurt me,” I said tearfully. “Well, you should have thought of that before you decided to be a whore and an embarrassment to me,” he said, “because right now, I’m getting ready to teach you the errors of your ways, slut!” And he stood above me, facing away, and then to my horror, he knelt down so that he blocked my view—I couldn’t see what he was about it do, and I couldn’t move my hips to avoid anything he did!