Daddy

Ling strode along the pavement, tossing her straight, shiny, black hair angrily over her shoulder as she turned the corner. Her black leather mini-skirt rode up her thighs when her long brown legs strutted in front of her. Even though her breasts protruded over the top of her small, slinky, low-cut singlet top, no-one bothered to look twice at her.

New York was like that; always accepting, never bothering to make sure the street workers were kept off the streets. Everyone minded their own business. The streets advertised sex in neon signs. ‘Topless, Topless, Topless,’ the words screamed out in fluro pink bubble writing. Girls wearing minimal clothing swung their bodies into passerbys hoping to get work. It wasn’t hard to get work in this part of the city. But Ling hardly acknowledged the night-clubs and brothels. She was on a mission.

She stopped still at the corner of Park and Fifth Ave. and waited. Each time a car rolled past she would wrap herself around the ‘No Parking’ sign and pout seductively at the drivers. Whether they were men or women was unimportant but she was selective about the kind of drivers she chose. They had to fit the criteria.

Eventually a car drew to a stop beside her. The tinted window rolled down. A middle-aged businessman winked at her, lent across and pushed open the passenger door. Silently, he slid back to his seat and waited. He was the perfect client.

One long, slender leg stepped into the car, and he gasped. Then the other leg followed, drawing her body into the leather interior. Finally she shut the door and within seconds his hands were roaming up the inside of her thigh. He started the car. Keeping one hand between her legs, he pulled out into the night.

She looked up, staring at the roof of the car. She felt nothing, just a cold tight knot in the pit of her stomach. She knew after last time that she shouldn’t be doing this again. But she needed the money and knew it was her only way to prove the power that she had over men. She could remember one of her friends saying that women had the upper hand when it came to guys and their dicks. She was not wrong.

She could smell his breath warm and stale on her neck. He was staring at her. The hairs along her spine stood on end. She knew there was no turning back. She didn’t bother to glance at him; he was no different from the ones before. The car sped forward into the night, down unfamiliar alleys, and pulled up outside a seedy motel.

He reached behind him and grabbed a bag that was sitting on the backseat. He pushed open the car door and stepped out into the biting winter wind. Silently, he led her up a narrow stairway and into one of the dingy motel rooms.

Once inside, he closed the door and flicked the flimsy lock across. He turned and grinned at her. She could tell he was the kinky kind by the way he moved and acted around her. He was whispering feverishly now, “I’ve been a bad boy, a very bad boy, and I have to be punished.”

Her lips curled at the corners. This was not the first time she had had to fulfill this fantasy.

“Now what do you suggest for your punishment?” she cooed at him.

“Open the bag,” he told her, his eyes flashing with excitement.

Slowly she went to the bag and unzipped it. Inside was a pair of handcuffs, a long piece of rope and a leather whip. She shook her head, almost laughing to herself. She picked up the whip and cracked it in the air. When she turned around to face him he was naked. He had hurriedly undressed himself and stood waiting for her to tie him up.

When she had handcuffed his arms to the bed-head and bound his feet together and secured them to the end of the bed, she picked up the whip again. She could see his body quiver with excitement, his fat bottom wobbled and shook violently as she cracked the whip down on him, gently at first.

“How many lashes would be suitable?” she questioned.

“As many as you see fit to punish me for being a bad bad boy,” his voice was high and childlike.

She stood above him, feeling the power ripple across the surface of her skin. The whip arched in the air. The end flicked out and came cracking down on his pale smooth skin, more forcefully this time, and a raw, red welt appeared. When she raised the whip again she could see the welt swelling, scaring his back. He moaned with pleasure as she sent the whip cracking down again. The whip cut into his tender flesh. “More! More!” he screamed.

The pleasure on his face was soon replaced by fear. But when he begged for her to stop she brought the whip down even harder on his welted skin. Her expression showed no remorse for the pain she was inflicting on him. Each lash cut deeper into his skin. She had turned his legs into pulp, they were almost unrecognisable. She bent her head back and let out an evil cry. He wished he had not paid her in advance. She sure as hell was not worth a thousand bucks of his hard earned money.

He screamed every time she brought the whip down on his mangled flesh. The excitement that had once been there had gone after the first fifteen lashes. He lay helpless, unable to move, salty tears ran into his mouth choking him every time he let out a scream of protest. His breathing had become shallow and his eyes shone with fear.

She turned him over. He yelped in pain as his weight pressed him into the mattress. His arms twisted around each other and the rope around his ankles tightened and dug into his skin.

He closed his eyes tightly and bit into his bottom lip. She continued to lash him. The whip stung into fresh flesh, blood trickled down his chin, his lip bleeding where his teeth had sunk in. He couldn’t open his eyes and look at her. But he could tell from her menacing presence that she was extremely disturbed. It was almost as if she had planned the whole thing beforehand.

Hours later, the body of the man lay motionless on the bed. His chest had stopped its rhythmic rising, and his eyes were vacant. The room was silent; she had left long ago. There was no-one around to see her depart. She had walked out the door as calmly as she had walked in. Another male had been punished and she was a grand richer. She had stuffed the money down her bra and walked away along the sidewalk.

A police car was passing through the area. It sped past the dingy motel without even slowing. Jim was bored. It was a quiet night to be on duty. He had to go and buy the guys back at the station a box of donuts. They were always making him go. It wasn’t his fault he was the new cop at the station. It sure as hell felt like he had been there all his life the way the boys were always using him.

He saw Ling walking down the main road. He slowed down and rolled the car forwards keeping pace with her. “Not a good idea for a girl to be walking alone on a night like this,” he said.

She didn’t reply but simply smiled enigmatically. He had stopped the car and asked if he could take her anywhere. “Sure,” she replied. Once inside the car she turned her attention to watching him. He was young for a cop. Twenty five maybe, no wedding ring and slightly good looking. He was well built yet he had puppy dog eyes. He could feel her watching him and turned his head to look at her.

“Have you been a bad boy?” she asked, winking at him.

* * * * *

Ling turned the key in the heavy wooden door and went in. Inside was neat and organised. Magazines were stacked neatly in the middle of the glass coffee table and there was not a dirty mug to be seen. She headed upstairs to her bedroom. After undressing she slipped silently under the sheets, her head falling heavily against the pillow. Within moments she was asleep and began to dream.

His hand moves across her flat chest. His breath is quick and heavy, smelling of stale whiskey. He rips open the front of her floral dress and his hand moves up her thin brown thigh, stroking and petting her.

Her big brown eyes plead at him to stop. Traces of sorrow and regret are present on his face, for a second, but desperate hunger takes over him again and his hands continue to roam over her small body. She turns her head away from him, tears streaming down her face.

It had all started as a game, but as she grew older she became more afraid of him. Tonight is different somehow. He is no longer gentle with her. His hands and body press roughly against her, causing her to cry out with pain.

He yanks her dress over her head and throws it on the floor with the rest of her clothing. His eyes glow with

desire. She cowers, naked. Quickly, he pulls down his worn jeans and moves towards her. He grabs her shaking body and carries her to the bed. He lies down on top of her, his tongue forcing its way inside her mouth. She dares not to move. She can fell something hard pressing against her thighs. She screams but it is useless; no-one can hear her. They are all at work or school. Where Ling is meant to be now, laughing and chatting with her friends. But her father wouldn’t let her go to school. Said she had to stay home and keep him company.

He is on all fours now, towering above her. She can now see that hard thing she had felt before. She wants to run to the bathroom and be sick. It keep getting bigger. Every time he tugs, it grows. He takes one of her hands and places it on it. Guiding her with his hand he shows her how to play with it.

Each time, he moans with pleasure, telling her she is a good girl. She was daddy’s little angel. He moves up so that it is now above her mouth. He guides it into her tightly closed mouth and tells her to suck, telling her to pretend it is a lollipop. She bites it as hard as she can and he yelps in pain. He smacks her across the face. “Bad girl, you’ve been a very bad girl!” he yells. He moves it back between her thighs and lies heavily on top of her. She cannot move. His weight holds her tightly to the bed.

He forces his way between her legs. His body arches as he thrusts himself deep inside her. She screams from the pain. It feels as if her insides are being ripped open. She chokes on her tears. He has never done this to her before.

After what seemed like hours he finally goes limp inside her. He lets out a sigh of satisfaction and rolls off her. She runs. Quickly she grabs her clothes off the floor and flees.

Ling bolted upright. Sweat trickled down her spine. It was not the first time she has had that dream. Every time it seems so real. She knows she will have to find a new victim soon to ease away the pain. She couldn’t sleep again that night. Every time she closed her eyes her father would be there, standing powerfully over her.

* * * * *

It was gloomy inside. The walls seemed to press closer. The thick heavy curtains blocked out most of the sunlight. He swiveled around in his chair to face his new client.

“Now Ling, what seems to be troubling you?” He questioned.

Wasn’t that what he was paid for? she thought angrily. She could tell this was going to be a waste of money. She glared at him through her thick black lashes. He was old. His graying hair was combed over his balding scalp. She hated guys with comb-overs. His hands were wrinkly, his fingers bent out at awkward angles, as if they had been broken and never fixed. She despised him already and she had only been sitting there for five minutes.

He hadn’t said anything else. He just sat and watched her. It was creepy really, as if he was trying to read her thoughts. She focused on a photo of his family. It was sitting right on his desk in front of her. Who cares about his perfect family? she thought. It’s not as if anyone actually lives like that anymore. She wished she hadn’t seen the photo. Memories of her childhood came flooding back like a cascading waterfall. She screwed her eyes shut and lent back against the spongy sofa.

“No, No,” she moaned softly. He watched her. Like a bottle of champagne, he thought to himself. He thought that about all of his clients. They always sat so silently and then suddenly burst open without warning.

She had begun to ramble on about her mother. About how she had refused to see her child’s nightmare. Only it wasn’t a nightmare, it was real. She had shut out these feelings for so long that they came flowing out of her mouth in a jumbled mess. Ling went on to talk about him - the wicked man that had told her he loved her, that she was his little angel even while abusing her. Her lips spat out the hatred that had been bottled up for so long. She started to talk about her life when she had left home. How she was forced out onto the streets with no money. Ling had had no where to go. She turned to people for comfort but they only ever wanted her for one thing and one thing only. Sex. Prostitution had come easily to Ling; she knew no different. The men had the same hungry look in their eyes as her father had had, and as they touched her it awoke in her the revenge she lusted for so long.

She didn’t stop to think that she was telling him too much. She had to let it all pour out. All about every victim, how she had killed them, how much money she had been paid and how much she enjoyed their pain. When she had told everything up until this morning she stopped, opened her eyes and stared at him.

His muscles had tensed and he sat stiffly in his red leather chair. It was as if something she had said frightened him. She smiled slightly. The corners of her mouth turned upwards and she battered her eye lids at him.

He sat dumb-founded. In all his years at university they had never taught him how to deal with this situation. It made him wonder if maybe he should have taken over the family greengrocer’s after all. It would have been a hell of a lot quieter. He knew he wasn’t meant to tell the police about his clients but how could he let her just walk away? She was deeply disturbed and he doubted that she actually had control over her venomous hate. He ran a finger over his family photo.

She watched him as he pondered what to do. She saw him reach out to his family and it triggered the knot of hate inside her. She stood up and walked towards him. Quickly, she tore off the sleeve of her blouse. She strode towards him. He looked up just in time to see her out-stretched hands press the sleeve into his mouth. She tied it firmly behind his head and bent down to tie his hands. He struggled as she pinned his arms behind his back, but she was stronger than he thought.

When she had him secured to his chair she went to the curtains and cut off the cord. She used this to bind his feet to the legs of the chair.

“Now,” she scowled, “How can I punish you?”

Ling was consumed with anger, and thought of nothing but revenge. Her eyes glowed red in the dark wooden room. She took a sharp pair of scissors from the desk and held them out in front of her, contemplating her next move.

She pulled down his neatly pressed pants, and cut open his boxers. He sat exposed in front of her. His eyes flashing with immense terror. Sweat poured off him, causing yellow wet patches to appear on his crisp white shirt. The scissor blades gleamed in the sunlight that trickled through the gaps in the red velvet curtains. With one swift movement she sliced his groin. Bright red blood squirted out and splattered over her chest. He cried out in surprise and pain. She cut into his testicles and stared at the dark dirty blood forming on the floor.

She hadn’t want him to see the pain behind her eyes or to have him reading her thoughts. She took a silver letter opener off his desk. Standing in front of him, she flicked the letter opener towards his face. Seconds later one of his eyeballs hung out from its socket, the ligaments stopped it from splattering on the ground. Her hand quickly moved and repeated the same flicking action. She watched at his eyeballs hung in mid-air, connected like elastic to his head.

This time is was different. She knew she had to keep her secret safe. It had felt good to get it off her chest, to let her bottled emotions flow out into the quiet room. There was one thing left before she could leave.

His head hung limply, and his body sagged, his arms and legs had given up their fight against their bindings. With deft movement, she used the bloody scissors to hack off his penis.

An hour later She pushed open the door to her small Victorian house. She wandered into the lounge room and pulled the bookcase away from the wall. Behind that was a small door that led down a rickety flight of stairs to the basement.

She took out her trophy, cleaned it gently with a soft cloth and baby oil and placed it into an air-tight glass container. She walked to a stain-glass cupboard and opened the door. Inside was full of identical glass containers. Everyone contained a shrunken and mutilated penis. Each with a name and date on it. The earliest read, “Dad, 1990.”