Suffocate

Chapter 18

Dad unbuckles the leather belt binding my wrists together. Red crevices mark the circumference of my wrists; the deep red contrasts with the color of my skin, which is tan to an extent.

I watch in silence as Dad loops the belt back into his pants' belt loops.

Dad turns his attention on me for a second before he goes back to doing whatever he was doing. He picks up my jeans and boxers and slings them over the desk chair in the left corner of the room.

At that moment, I take a look at myself.

I'm completely naked, as bare as the day I was born. Rosemary pink handprints make their appearance over on my hips. Several hickeys are visible to my own eyes; of course, all except the ones on my neck, which I'm sure are a mix of red and purple, like the bruises I have on my legs and ankles.

We've gone at it maybe two or three times. I had a feeling we'd do more than just one round. Why did I think we'd do it just once? It's never been just once. Never.

My dick looks like it's worked out enough. I don't have the energy to joke around, plus, I'm pretty sure I suck at making jokes, but my dick looks like I dipped it in a bowl of Kool-Aid. At least it's not as swollen as it was a half hour ago. I was nearly screaming when Dad wouldn't let me release.

Fucking asshole.

I scowl at the familiar ache in my lower back when I move into a more comfortable position.

"Put a pillow behind you," Dad advises. I glare at him, which elicits a chuckle out of him. "Don't look at me like that. Do what I tell you." He arches his brow at me expectantly.

I roll my eyes. After maneuvering my wrists in circular motions a few times, getting the feeling back into my hands, I struggle to reach for a pillow on the other side of the bed.

"Ah . . ." I flinch, instantly becoming aware of the rising discomfort in my body. Irritated, I shove the pillow behind me, hoping it solves my problem without me needing to do anything more.

Dad shakes his head. The man chastises me. Approaching me with confidence, Dad runs his large hand through my hair. My hair must be a complete mess. His fingers comb through my brown strands. Dad gazes downwards at me.

"How do you feel?" he asks me softly. I close my eyes and cover my chest with my arms, not that that's covering anything.

"Like shit," I reply bluntly. Dad snickers.

"It didn't feel good?" He runs his hands over my shoulders. "I thought you were liking it . . ."

There goes his "baby-talk". I glance at him sheepishly.

"You already know . . ." I say vaguely. He already fucking knows it all. What's the point in asking? I'm not saying anything out loud like that.

Dad bends down and stares me down at eye-level.

"Why can't you tell me how you really feel?" he asks. He's serious and a bit concerned. Maybe even a little bit pissed off. He's something, that's for sure.

"You want the truth?" I ask, getting fed up with him. Dad steels his features.

"Talk to me."

"You fucked me. There. It-It didn't feel like complete shit for once. There," I huff out. I tighten my grip on my arms.

There. I said it. Now stop fucking asking me questions.

Dad looks solemnly at me.

"How many times has it hurt?"