Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I squeezed into Torsten's bunk in the sleeping car; we lay there spooned, fully clothed, too restless to sleep. "You never told me about those older women, Daddy," I murmured. "When you were young."

He pulled his coat over me and kissed the star on my neck. "There's not much to tell."

"Tell me anyway."

"Are you sure you want to hear it?"

I was surprised to hear a hesitation in his voice. "Why not, Daddy?"

"It's just--well." He played with the coat's buttons. When he finally answered me, he spoke slowly, warily. "All right, I'll tell you. But it's not an easy matter to talk about."

"Must've been some woman," I quipped.

But he didn't laugh with me. "She was," he said quietly. "She's dead, now, you see. She was only a few years older than me, married to someone I knew well. I've never told anyone about it, in fact," he said. "We had to keep it a secret, or it would've destroyed us both. It nearly did."

Words still clung to his throat; he took a long while to find the right ones. This seemed more like an awkward confession than anything else: I couldn't hear the slightest trace of the pride with which he usually described his exploits, Torsten the ladykiller always so keen to boast of his sexual conquests.

"What was her name?" I prompted.

Torsten remained quiet, too quiet.

"What's wrong?" I asked, turning around in his arms so that I was facing him. "You've never kept secrets from me before." In fact, I was upset, now; that he should act like this, that something was left unsaid between us even on the eve of our death. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Forgive me," he murmured. "Before you, there was but one woman in my life that mattered anything to me, you see, only one I thought I loved, and I thought this woman was the one. But she wasn't, and it all went terribly wrong for both of us," he sighed. "I hate telling you this, because I don't want you to be jealous," he said.

But even then, I felt he was not being honest. "You don't have to tell me her name," I lied, even if I was burning to know, now; know the name he had drawn upon his heart and then erased, the palimpsest upon which he had carved mine. "What did she look like?"

The corner of Torsten's mouth twitched with bittersweet mirth. "Fair. Voluptuous. Piercing blue eyes, and a lascivious look in them whenever her husband wasn't watching. Very much like you, in fact."

"And her husband found out."

Torsten shook his head. "He never did, actually. I don't know how we got away with it, but we did. We slept together even at his family cottage, when he was away; we fucked like animals and barely had time to dress before he came back from his hunting trip."

"How old were you?"

"I was a grown man, actually. Thirty. I'd had some adventures with women before, but she was the only one who took time to teach me, made me appreciate a woman's desire. She's the one who taught me this," he said, taking me by the throat, squeezing me by it, adoring my face as he observed the way I flushed, stiffened in arousal. "That sort of thing, you see," he said and let go, caressing my hip, as if he could feel the lust now stirring, swirling in my pelvis. "All my skill in that particular art, I owe to her."

"A woman?" I laughed. "A woman made you a sadist?"

"She looked so beautiful when she begged for me to dominate her," he purred, now curling up a little against me, finally relishing the tale. "So I had to learn quickly."

"So none of this came from men?"

Torsten tutted pityingly. "No, no, no, no. Men are weak, not capable of the depths of cruelty women can both give and take. That's the funniest thing--I thought I preferred men, but she made me realise I loved women more after all, when it came to sheer psychology, the role-play, the games. Men are more stunted in that regard, lacking imagination. I love a good cock up the ass, as you've seen, but emotionally, I prefer women. They're warmer, more responsive, more complex. Neurotic, yes, but more rewarding, and can submit more beautifully than men ever can. After I realised these things, I also began to understand myself--it explained why I had always felt half female, too."

"You understand women on a soul level," I said and caressed his cheek. "When women don't even understand themselves, or each other. That's what you taught me," I whispered. "You're going to be so puffed up with conceit when I tell you this, but I mean it. It's as if you were more female than most women ever will be, yet stronger than any man I have ever known, either; stronger than either sex, more than the sum of their parts."

"Thank you." He kissed my mouth. "So, there you have it. It was through loving a woman that Torsten Barring understood why he was a tranny and a faggot."

I laughed; his blunt sense of humour was something I had always loved about him as well. "And you're useless outside the bedroom."

He pouted, pretending offense. "Fair enough," he said, "it's a little too late to deny that. But are you complaining?"

"Never," I said and cupped his cheek, kissing him gently.

He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, groaning in his chest. "I don't believe it."

"Believe what?"

"I desperately need to piss," he said and grinned at me.

I burst into laughter. "Not in here. It's not public enough."

"Pervert," he smiled at me, his eyes glittering from joy. "Quick, then. Into the corridor," he said and slapped me on the ass.

And there, in the corridor, where anyone could have seen us, he stood up and I knelt at his feet, taking his cock into my mouth. We laughed at first, but then my eyes were full of tears: his piss tasted sweet, the memories it brought back making it hard for me to swallow as I tried not to cry. The evening sun glittered through the windows, through his irises, dancing upon his sleek, dark head; my father claiming me just as he had first claimed me, wedding me to his darkness and his perversion as the train thundered around us. We were going home, back to where it had all started, retracing our steps, home, home.

I saw movement from the corner of my eye. The conductor stood at the end of the car, leaning on the doorframe. Torsten turned to him, smiling; the conductor, assuming I was fellating Torsten, just grinned and winked at him, retreating.

After, we tumbled into our compartment, laughing, weeping, hugging; Torsten lifted me into his arms and spun me around as much as he could in such a confined space, then pulled me to lie beside him upon the bed. There, he groaned with happiness as he held me close.

"Has Daddy's little girl had a good time?" he asked, his voice rough, his breathing heavy from exertion, from his illness.

And in that, I knew he was asking me about my whole life, not just tonight; I wept and wept from joy, kissing his hands. "She has, she has. Thank you for everything, Daddy," I said, hugging him so tight he couldn't breathe, the way a child does; "you're the best Daddy a girl could ever have."

***

Forssa. The old manor, white amidst the bright, fresh green of the whispering birches, the gray-green curtains of the falls behind us: once the taxi had driven off, we were completely alone. The house had been wrapped up for over a year; in the end, we hadn't had the heart to sell it. It had been lying uninhabited ever since Grandfather had died, ever since I had left: the silence within was eerie. I had been so used to the sound of cows and horses, to servants going in and out that I hardly recognised the place. Torsten told me he'd had to ask a man at the village to come in and turn on the electricity, the water for us; when I turned on the kitchen tap to wash my hands, the water ran brown at first. We'd brought our own food and drink, what little we needed: after all, at the stroke of midnight, we were to end our lives.

The house seemed haunted even before we'd had the chance to become ghosts; Torsten coughed violently at the dust that billowed out as we pulled the sheets off the furniture. Ritually, we went through each and every room, the lord and lady of the manor announcing they were home. Finally, we arrived at the attic, I carrying a candelabra--we never did get lights installed up there--and Torsten carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The attic had always frightened everyone else except me; I had always loved it because I could be alone there, alone amidst all the old banners, spears, cuirasses and muskets, remnants of the Barrings' martial past. Here, I had woven my own little plays that had lasted for hours: here, I had fallen into long trances imagining myself a medieval knight or a vampire countess; here, I could always masturbate to my heart's content, so that the musty air and the cobwebs immediately triggered feelings of deep arousal within me.

Torsten, never one to miss a chance to show off, drew an old sabre from its scabbard and weighed it in his hand. "Hold out the glasses."

And with one stroke, he took the top off the champagne bottle, I rushing to fill our glasses, laughing as the foam spilled over our clothes.

"That's the way the hussars do it, you know," Torsten said and raised his glass. "I always wanted to be one."

"Didn't they say that no true hussar would live past thirty?" I said and raised mine.

"Sixty-six years we've had in total," he sighed proudly and slinked his hips. "Not bad for a pair of hellraisers. To us!"

"To us!" I clinked glasses with him. "Skål, and the Devil take me," we both said in unison, the old libertine's toast, laughing at our telepathy.

"Speaking of evil, I was going to show you something," he said and moved aside an old trunk, prying one of the floorboards loose. "You asked about that woman," he said, his hands on his knees, staring into the gap he had made, waiting.

"What about her?" I asked, having downed my champagne in one swallow, now refilling my glass.

"I was going to tell you on your eighteenth birthday," he murmured. "Or maybe not," he smiled wryly, to himself. "Because I thought you'd kill me."

"I am going to kill you," the morbid playfulness with which I said the truth now swirling, sparkling in my belly like the champagne.

"Which is exactly why it doesn't matter any more," he said and took out a piece of paper from between the floorboards, blowing dust from it and shuffling to me upon his knees. "Still, I would ask you not to hate me, Laura," he said and looked into my eyes with a grim seriousness, not letting me take the letter yet.

I rolled my eyes. "Torsten, you are a rapist, a murderer and a pederast. And so am I. I doubt there's anything I would judge you for. Give it to me."

He snatched my wrist in his hand, squeezing it painfully. "I'm serious. This letter concerns you. Do you recognise the handwriting?"

I squinted in the darkness, the champagne already having gone to my head a little, making the letters blur in my eyes. "No."

"No," Torsten said quietly, "I suppose you wouldn't." He unfolded the entire letter and showed me the signature. "Margit."

I looked up at him. "Margit who?"

But as he handed me the letter and remained quiet, the champagne rose into my throat, my stomach clutched by an ice-cold terror.

Margit.

The name I had always pronounced "Mag-gi," never having known her long enough to learn how to address her properly. Fair hair, blue eyes, a face I only remembered from a photo on my dresser. And now, the champagne bubbled up from my shock, making me burp--so inappropriate at a time like this; my hands were shaking.

"Little brother,

It's been three months. And it's exactly what I had feared, what you and I had both feared. Erik cornered me today and asked me why I had been behaving the way I had done, eating so much and crying so much--and I had to tell him the truth. Well, only half the truth, because I don't know the whole truth myself. He came to me that night at the cottage, after you'd left; I literally don't know which one of you is the father. What am I going to do? I was going to divorce him, but this will bind me to him forever--the judges wouldn't grant me a divorce in my state. And if I went to Stockholm, now, found the right sort of doctor, Erik would know no matter how discreet I was about it. He would suspect, and he would turn my life into a living hell--as if it wasn't a hell right now!

And if it was yours, wouldn't it have aborted already? Am I going to give birth to a deformed monster? And be bound to it forever, too, as a punishment for our sins? Imagine me, spoon-feeding a drooling imbecile until I am old and gray, my life wasted caring for a creature that should never have been born? I am this close to throwing myself into the falls, Torsten. What shall I do?"

"A monster," I whispered, letting the letter fall from my hand.

"To this day, I'm not sure who the father was," Torsten said quietly, the bottle ringing against the rim of his glass as he refilled it with shaking hands.

"A drooling imbecile," I whispered, gazing at my reflection in the rusty old mirror beside me.

"Your grandfather never knew, either. No one except Margit and I. And the revenge she took on me--" he sipped from his glass, a little champagne spilling out of the corner of his mouth.

"A creature that should never have been born," I murmured, smashing my fist into the mirror, not feeling pain even as my knuckles bled, even as I let the mirror crash onto the floor, seven years of bad luck shattering around us.

"It was she who had me committed," Torsten said, setting his glass down, swaying with his hands upon his knees, now hysterical himself from remembered trauma. "And she told the doctors. Told them everything, on the condition that they didn't tell anyone else. And that's why--" he made a snipping movement with his fingers. "So, there you have it."

"That fucking bitch," I said, coldly, calmly, steadily. Nothing and everything made sense all at once; I downed my glass and refilled it. "I don't suppose any of us will ever know, now," I said.

"Do you hate me now?" he asked, not looking up at me, his voice quiet, childlike, feminine.

I laughed, an awful, broken laugh, snorting champagne into my sinuses, tears falling out of my eyes. "What point is there? You've only confirmed what I'd always suspected; that my parents would have hated me, would have destroyed me had they lived. They would've taken my behaviour as a sign of mental retardation," I laughed bitterly, wiping my eyes. "And they would've put me away, oh, Torsten--if it hadn't been for you, I--" my voice broke; I was weeping too violently to speak.

"Come here, my child," he said and gathered me into his arms, holding me tight.

My child. I screamed into his suit, screamed from the bottom of my lungs, from the very bottom of my hatred, howling, so angry, now. "What's the point of even speculating? You've been the only true father I've ever had, the only one who's ever loved me like one," I sobbed. "If I had had a choice, I would've chosen you, out of all the stupid idiots on this blasted estate, I--"

"My Laura," he whispered, his voice wet from tears. "My Laura, my Laura," and he kissed my tears from my face, swallowed up my sobs with his mouth, drinking in my shock, my terror. My father, my one true father, and I wished I was indeed the fruit of his loins, the fruit of incest who had found her only true happiness in incest in turn; I felt so cursed it had to be true. I hurt everywhere, down in the very bottom of my soul, in my every limb, a girl made of hatred, of pain.

"Hurt me, Daddy," I keened, clawing at his shirt; "Hurt me like you've never hurt me before. I want the pain to end. I can't take it. I can't."

"I shall, I shall," he said, now weeping openly himself. "God," he sniffed. "I always wanted to tell you, but I was never quite sure; oh, Laura. It's why I couldn't kill you, you see, even if you took my fortune from me," he laughed bitterly.

"And tomorrow, that fortune will pass to the creditors," I laughed hysterically, "this house, and everything in it."

"But we are better than that, better than the rest of this benighted family," he said and rocked me in his arms violently, as if lulling a child to sleep. "We have lived more than they ever did, Laura; we have lived. And tonight, we'll show them, my love, we will show them all."

"No more talk," I said, shaking my head, wiping tears and phlegm from my face. "Let's get started."

***

We bathed together, the slowest, most luxuriant bath we had ever had; like sacrificial victims preparing to meet their gods, we purified ourselves, each other completely. But only on the outside: I had wondered if Torsten would give me an enema, but we decided on the lightest of rinses instead. Just as he had taught me: the right amount of water to keep the surfaces of the ass clean enough for maximum sensation, but not to make one too sore or to destroy all flavour. And indeed, what would we have to worry about, now, even if we did end up making a mess? Stomach upsets or infections would not concern us in the grave.

And for a long time, he held me underneath the shower, letting it wash my anxiety from me. I felt that with every new spray of water, with every cloud of soap suds that flowed down the drain he was sloughing an old fear from me, scrubbing away the new disappointments, the horrors of my birth until only the Laura he knew remained. Not the monster my mother had thought I'd be, the unwanted brat who had bound her to a husband she did not love; not the abnormal deviant Segert had sought to kill. Out of all the people in this world, only Torsten had ever known the true Laura, and this devastated me.

I told him all this, and clutched at him furiously so that he would kiss me; I was still empty, hungry.

"You are nothing but my little Laura, now," he murmured, as if chanting a spell. "My little empress. Nothing else matters now, nothing."

And he was no longer Torsten the wastrel, the weakling, either; he had been raised to glory, to manhood by his fathering of me. With each caress, each scrub, the firm way he held me he became a man greater, stronger; it was his care that made him powerful, an adult instead of the wayward son he had been. My childhood, my weakness, my inexperience had given him the chance to become the man he now was--I was the one who had given him a chance to prove himself, to become the protector, the mentor, the teacher, the greatest of lovers.

And there we stood, at the height of our powers, the heads of the Barring clan, about to plunge our bloodline into endless night. But not without fire and rage, sex and violence, sturm und drang: tonight, we were to blaze bright.

"We're disgustingly clean, you know," Torsten said as we towelled off.

"But for us, this is perverse, isn't it?" I said as I spread my legs on the toilet seat.

"You have a point," he said and knelt down to shave me.

And he worshipped my vulva, bidding farewell to it with his kisses, caresses after he had shorn it of hair; for the better part of an hour, he spent feasting on me, fingering me. He drew orgasm after orgasm from me, as easily as he pulled strings of my sweetness from me, feasting upon them like sugar; piss and ejaculate he drew from me, washing me with his mouth, with water until I was completely clean, empty, glowing from his love.

"Daddy's little baby pussy," he sighed against my mound, resting his head on my belly, his voice slurred from how his jaw must have ached. "This has to have been my favourite taste in the entire world, you know," he murmured. "A young girl's fresh, smooth pussy, when it's all sweet like this, just upon the cusp of bleeding. But you added another dimension to it, you know," he said, looking up at me, his eyes twinkling.

"And what's that?"

"Champagne piss," he said, relishing the words with a wet, sensual hiss. "I studied it, you know. Everything else tastes too sweet or too acidic once it's passed through the body. But a good, dry champagne-flavoured piss from a healthy young girl's pussy--" he moaned in delight, planting a wet kiss on my pussy's lips. "Heaven."

"And now, it'll never be a woman's pussy," I murmured, lost in thought. "To think of it--you will never see it swell and droop, never have it grow slack from children. It'll always be a child's pussy." And that's how I wanted to go: a child, forever the perverse innocent. Adulthood was not what I wanted: forget the hussars, I wanted to die when I was still truly young, age never having touched me with its ugly, crippling fingers. "Give me the mirror."

"Here you are, m'am," Torsten said, like some eighteenth-century courtier in a dirty engraving, holding a mirror up to his mistress's freshly-shaven sex, her freshly rinsed ass.

I traced my smooth cleft, adoring the exquisite softness of it, the sensitivity of it, seeing what Torsten saw in it, its purity still miraculously untainted after all we had gone through. "It's pristine," I murmured. "After all this time." So red and so swollen, gleaming, so beautiful; the sweetest, ripest of fruits for my father to take, he and I adoring it in silence for long moments.

Finally, I took both mirror and razor from him. "Now let me see yours, Daddy."

And an equal amount of time, I spent shaving his ass, his genitals, kissing him all over. I could never get enough of the silken softness of the skin over his cock and his balls, so tender and vulnerable no matter how often he had used his cock as a weapon, no matter how well I knew the pain it could give me. I tried so very hard not to make him come, and I knew he was straining as well: I knew exactly how close to climax the act of shaving could bring him, relishing way he shook, holding up his legs as I kissed the bud of his ass.

"Please, Laura," he hacked out from between clenched teeth, his cock already having drawn a wet stripe over his belly. "I'll let you lick it more later, I promise," he said as he let go of his legs and leaned down to kiss me. "Let's get dressed."

We did so ritualistically, each of us withdrawing to a room of our own to groom ourselves for the big night. I took longer than he did, of course; he prepared us dinner while I coiffed my hair and put on my make-up. After all, this was the most important event of our lives; it wouldn't do to arrive looking anything less than perfect. I had hesitated for a while about what I would wear, but in the end, the choice had been obvious: instead of an evening gown, I wore the most doll-like, frilly white dress, similar to the one Torsten had made me wear when he had prostituted me at the Peacock. Had I dressed like a grown woman, it would have been far less perverse, I reasoned; this way, I reaffirmed my identity as that of the eternal girl, the child untainted by the world.

Only through Torsten's debauchings had I become this pure, purer than I had ever been as a child; only through him, had I shed all these inhibitions and rules society sought to impose on children. Only through his coaching had I regained the true innocent state where I did not discriminate between purity and filth, between right or wrong; only through him had I re-entered the true, amoral, animal state of a human being at its birth.

I descended the staircase in my dress and my knee socks, my Mary Janes loud on the stairs; betuxedoed, Torsten leaned against the door with his hands in his pockets, smoking, whistling at me.

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"You're looking up my skirt."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," he laughed and took me by the hands. "Let me look at you," he said with true fatherly pride, beaming from happiness. "My Laura."

I looked at him up and down in turn, feasted my eyes upon the perfect cut of his white tie and tails, the way the ensemble licked his hourglass waist and flared at the beautiful curve of his hips. "I have the handsomest Daddy in the whole wide world," I said, my voice young, light.

He offered me his arm. "Dinner is served."

I sniffed the air; there was a distinct smell of smoke coming from the kitchen. "Oh, Daddy. You burned the roast."

"Damn it." He let go of me and rushed into the kitchen, and I couldn't help but laugh as he struggled with the oven mittens in his tuxedo, like a gangly penguin on thin ice. We'd bought the roast cooked from the village and had only needed to warm it up again in the oven, but trust him to make a mess of even that, always having had servants or mistresses to do his cooking for him.

He looked a little sheepish as he scraped the scorched parts off the roast. "It's still edible," he mumbled.

"Let me," I said and cut it for us. "Never let a playboy into the kitchen."

"You only love me for my cock," he mock-sulked and took his seat at the table.

"That's right," I laughed and served us.

It was the simplest of dinners, but for a last meal, it was sumptuous. He'd never made an effort before, and that made even burnt roast and canned peas taste delicious; I reached out to wash them down with more champagne.

"No more," he said. "I want you to be able to feel it all," he said. "And don't eat too much. I don't want you to fall asleep either."

"Yes, mother," I rolled my eyes and switched to water instead.

When we had finished, smoked, washed our hands, I put a record on: our last waltz. We danced in the grand ballroom all by ourselves, slow, long; the afternoon light threw our silhouettes across the floor, our shadows rehearsing hauntings to come. For it felt to me as if our spirits would keep on dancing here forever, the last Barrings haunting those who would set foot here after us. Even once this house had turned to dust and the forest had taken over, I knew we would keep on dancing amidst the pines, the birches, the moss and the lichen, terrifying children and possessing women with burning, erotic visions, invisible caresses in the night.

Torsten danced me passionately and I responded to his each step with equal passion; we made love standing up, body against body, flowing together through the room and each other. For a moment, I forgot everything, so lost in the swelling music, the violins that tore at my heart, made my throat choke with tears: my father's arms carried me through the pain, my father's elegant, lithe arms and legs guiding my little body, his erection a warm promise against my belly. I gave myself to him and he spun me, gathering strength from the strength I surrendered unto him, using the entire weight of his body to move me, to possess me. It was as if by the force of his desire he could imprint our footsteps onto the floor forever, so that one might step inside and read the words: Here, Torsten Henrik Barring clove unto his daughter; here, Laura Erika Barring gave herself to sin willingly, in utmost laughter, joy and delight.

"Just like the day you rescued me," I murmured and swooned into his arms; forever, forever I would keep spinning and whirling and swirling around him, long after our bodies were gone.

"The day you saved me, my child," he said softly, pulling back to nuzzle my temple. "It's strange; I grew up here, but never thought of it as home. Do you feel the same way?"

I shook my head. "The only home I ever had was with you, Daddy," I said, looking into his eyes, laughing as he twirled me. "I mean it."

He gathered me against himself, his arm wonderful, firm, sure around my waist. "I could say the same of you."

And now, the waltz died; there was but the scraping of the needle on the record. He took my hand and kissed it, bowing deeply before me; I answered his bow with the most perfect of court curtseys.

He held my hand in his and rubbed it with his thumb for a long while, smiling as he looked into my eyes. There was a spiritual glow to his face, his beauty never having looked more unearthly; his demon eyes glittered with the warmth of one who knows he's going home.

"Come, my child. It's time."

***

We made love for the last time in my bedroom, upstairs, still a child's room unchanged. All my dolls, dressed as adventuresses and vamps still sat on the windowsill, watching us quietly as Torsten embraced me in front of the full-length mirror.

"My little Laura is all grown up," he said, smiling over my shoulder, and despite the pallor of his face, he did not look a day older.

I leaned back into his arms and sighed in joy. "And now you've come to take me away."

"Yes, my darling," he chuckled. "Yes, I have. But first, I'm going to make love to you," he said and brought his hands to my breasts, squeezing them until I shivered from pain against his back, against the firmness of his body, against his erection.

"Hurt me," I whispered.

"I shall."

And as soon as he said it, I began to struggle, to resist; his laughter of joy echoed off the windows, loud, elated. He loved this as much as I did, loved each one of my screams as he sucked them from my mouth, as he bit me and groped me. He pulled off my shoes, socks, ribbons until I was only wearing my dress and my panties, squirming in his arms, panting against him.

"Daddy, no!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, and he laughed at each cry, adoring them, riding them, his desire mounting and mounting with each glorious moment of molestation I gave him. "No, no!" I sobbed, the perfect picture of the child being taken by force, so horrible, so awful my pussy soaked through my panties, so wonderful his pupils were dilated with feverish joy.

"Daddy, yes," he said as he slapped me, squeezed my breasts, panted in my ear, drunk from happiness; "there's no turning back, now," he purred, his voice rich from cruel tenderness. Finally, he held my head up by the hair, forcing me to face the mirror. "Is this what you want, hmm?" he crooned and slipped his hand into my panties. "For Daddy to touch you here?"

"No!"

He pulled his wet hand out and slapped my cheek. "Don't lie to me. You've been teasing me all day, showing off those big titties of yours, flashing your pussy at me when you walked down the stairs," he snarled, squeezing my pussy in his hand until I whimpered in pain against him. "You-want Dad-dy to fuck-you," he sing-songed, wet and disgusting in my ear.

"Stop it!" I squirmed, my shrieks shot through with laughter; I thought I might dissolve here from the sheer joy of the play, atomise into the air a spray of delight.

"But why would I, when you enjoy it so much?" he asked and lifted his hand out again, smearing his wet fingers across my lips, pushing them past my teeth so that he might choke me with them. "When your little pussy's this wet? Hmm?"

My heart fluttered against my ribs as I tasted my sweetness; my pussy clenched and clenched, so eager to be filled, but I wanted to stretch this moment out like toffee, spin it out like candy floss, oh, just keep on being molested forever. It hurt me that now that I finally knew he was my father, knew it in my blood and my bones, this--our first fuck with me knowing this--would be our last. He had always known, yet I hadn't; I wanted to relish this as long as I could, to keep the fire burning as long as I could, basking in the beauty of our sin perfected. I wanted to trap this moment in amber, my demon-father with his hand again sneaking between my legs; wanted to suspend us in time and space, immortalise the glory of our incest.

So I continued to struggle, to squirm, even as I heard his breath rasping in his chest, felt his strength waning a little.

"You have left me no choice but to tie you up, my child," he tutted, his bow tie askew, a strand of hair falling to his temple, over its bulging veins.

"Please!" I shrieked, twisted only so that I could keep on looking at his beauty, at the stains of lipstick I had made on his shirt front, at the flickering blue waters of his eyes. His eyes, his eyes; deep, I drank from them, the fountains of my life, my joy.

"I thought you'd like that idea," he laughed with his hand over my jaw, pursing my lips out with his fingers, kissing me wetly.

And there, he took up a long coil of rope--he had brought this, too, beforehand--and strung me up by my wrists from one of the beams in the ceiling. "The advantages of an attic room," he laughed as he pushed me around so that I was sent swinging, screaming, tiptoeing upon the floor. He had framed this image perfectly: we were still positioned right in front of the mirror so that we could see everything, so that these images would be the last ones we ever saw, the last ones our brains ever processed, our love at its cruellest, most beautiful.

"Watch," he said quietly and stood behind me, steadying me in front of the mirror.

He took a hold of my dress and ripped it, ripped it to pieces with his bare hands so that he must have been hurting his palms, yet he wanted to prove his power: his ravishing, savaging power, this sexual power he was the living manifestation of, his breath hot from arousal as he stripped me. Oh, but I loved it, loved it, swooning from the thrill of it, my nipples hard and dark as he revealed them to the evening air.

I could hear that little moan that always indicated a pulse in his cock as he brought his hands to my panties once more. "These, too," he cooed, pulling them up so that my mound was squeezed and trapped by the fabric, he tugging upon the panties as I panted, whimpered in his embrace. "Watch, little Laura, watch."

And he slapped my pussy, slapped it through the panties, slapped it so violently I screamed; hard, brutal blows from his hand. His long, slender fingers reaching past the fabric to play with my pussy, to pinch its lips, to rip apart the fabric, rip, rip; his entire hand covering my vulva, his fingertips playing at my perineum, my sex so small against the hugeness of his hand. He threw aside the torn fabric and clasped me in his palm, so easily, all of me held up only by that one hand as he devoured my neck, biting it, marking it, each one of his bite-sucks sending a lash of pleasure-pain to my pussy. I could swear he felt it underneath his hand, that's how violently my pussy clenched at his cannibalism of me, my screams vibrating through my body, my ribcage singing against his chest.

"What's the matter, Laura? What's the matter?" he cooed, letting me dangle free for a while. "Look at yourself. Aren't you beautiful?"

"I--"

He tucked his chin over my shoulder. "Yes, you are. Look at yourself," he said gently, warmly, cupping my breasts in his hands. "Look at these beautiful breasts right here, and that lovely little slit down there, that curve of your hips, your waist," he sighed, the proud father on his daughter's big day: I hung there, my hair a golden cloud around my head, my belly quivering underneath his caress. "My little daughter is the prettiest girl in the world."

"If you say so," I gasped, not knowing what else to say.

"Nu-uh," he said, slapping my breasts. "Look at me and say it."

"I--I am the prettiest girl in the world," I murmured at our reflections. And why was it so hard to say that even now, now that nobody else could pass judgement, now that only Torsten's words mattered? Now that only what I felt and said mattered? I loved him for this, loved him for reminding me of my power, my beauty at our very last moments, and set out to prove myself worthy of him. "I am the prettiest girl in the world," I said, now, with more defiance, my chin up. "I am. The prettiest girl. In the world!" I shouted into the mirror, becoming the goddess I saw reflected in his eyes, a lioness roused.

"That's more like it," he chuckled and kissed my cheek, his hands playing either side of my pussy. "And now it's time for Daddy to make you even prettier."

I closed my eyes; my breathing stopped. On my bed lay Torsten's long box, the long black leather box that contained his whips, his canes; I knew he would not spare me tonight, would give me more pain than he'd ever given me before. I wanted to be sick, wanted to come, wanted to run all at the same time; yet I was held in place by the ropes, by the weight of the blood that had settled into my hips, by the weight of his desire behind me. Always, always I had kept falling towards him, plunging into him, plummeting into him, down, down; as he let go of me, I was in freefall.

He spent a while picking and choosing; a little soft laugh from him told me he had made his choice. "Open your eyes," he said, wrapping his arm around me, holding the instrument he had chosen across my chest and over my shoulder.

"Oh, God," I whispered as I saw it. The rattan cane, his cruellest toy; I thought he would have started off with something softer, first, perhaps a crop or a flogger. Despite myself, I recoiled in fear, tensed in his arms.

"Kiss it," he said sternly and brought the cane to my lips. "Kiss it and say 'thank you, Daddy.'"

I choked, hesitating for a moment. His eyes widened in the mirror: he seemed to grow larger, stronger every time he fed on my pain in this manner, a psychic vampire gaining strength from my terror, my agony.

"What's the matter?" he jeered. "Are you scared?"

"Yes," I said, quietly. But I closed my eyes, forced myself to breathe and kissed the cane. "Thank you, Daddy."

"I'm going to make it so good for you," he murmured and kissed my cheek, his left hand stroking my pussy, tapping it, massaging it, his hips rutting against my back. "Going to wrap you up in red ribbons with this, my child. A pretty little package for me to open," he purred.

And I died in his arms at these words, died from the joy of pleasure-pain before he even struck me: I quit breathing and all I could hear was the swishing of his cane, even that a language I had learned by heart. That little warning swish, that teasing swish he knew would send me stiffening, stumbling upon my toes; now, he tickled the bare soles of my feet with the cane so that I yelped more, danced more, tossing to and fro.

"Stay still, now, my little princess, stay still," he sung, running the cane up the hollow of my spine, whisking it in my hair. "Shh."

I kept my eyes closed; my surprise when something far softer hit me made me open them again. He laughed at me through the mirror, his crooked teeth shining bright; he was swirling his flogger in his hand. "Only to warm you up, my sweet."

"You bastard!" I choked as he lashed me across the hips.

"Language!" he tutted, whipping me harder, several lashes against the buttocks, the warmth from his blows entwining with the warmth in my pussy, tingling, wonderful, sweet. And with this softer weapon, he prepared my body, bathing my thighs, my breasts, my belly, my pussy, my limbs with its blows until I glowed pink and warm all over. Bathing, yes: each one of his blows a hot blast of steam, opening my skin and relaxing my flesh, cleansing me for more pleasures to come; in this pain I floated, reeled like a sultana being massaged with fragrant ointments by loving handmaidens.

"Beautiful," he sighed, my father both the handmaiden and the sultan at once, the one preparing me for enjoyment and the one enjoying my flesh, the very depths of it so exquisitely perfumed with pain. He threw the flogger on the bed and ran his hands all over my body, caressing my now-sensitised skin, squeezing me, slapping me, pinching me until I was but a yielding, trembling mass of flesh in his arms. "Absolutely beautiful," he murmured, adoring my reflection.

"Fuck me," I slurred, my head lolling back over his shoulder, my mouth seeking his mouth. I was ready, so ready; could he not see it? He kissed me slowly, sucking a little upon my tongue, making my pussy pulse in desperation, my arousal now more painful than the blows he had dealt. "Please, fuck me," I moaned into his mouth.

"I want to fuck you so much," he said, his voice reedy with such honesty, such eagerness it made me ache. "But I want to make it last," he said, hugging me tight against himself, a man drowning. "Oh, Laura," he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut, his eyelashes glittering with tears. "I never want this to end."

He was so agitated, so close to breaking, so full of coiled energy I knew had to do something. Quickly, Laura, quickly, to spur him on before he collapsed; I had to remind him of why he was here. He was here to drive his power into me for one last time, and now I needed to summon up that power, to stir him into action once more.

"Then keep going, Daddy. Mark me. Show me."

"I will," he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. It saddened me when he took off his tailcoat and rolled up his sleeves, but he was gleaming from sweat and it was a hot day. Besides, now I could adore the beauty of his arms, the black lines of hair shadowing the sinewed, thin length of them, the grace of his hands as he twirled the rattan cane between his fingers. "Now, stand very still."

I closed my eyes and breathed.

His first blow was so awful I nearly passed out; I could not even make a noise for my pain. This was it, I thought; this his final, violent taking of me, such an utter possession of my body no ordinary sex could ever compare. Now that he didn't have to worry so much about my internal organs, he was far crueller with his strokes; yet I could sense he still avoided striking me across the kidneys, deliberately keeping me just on the edge of consciousness as he let the cane sing across my body. The pain was unimaginable, indescribable: all the hairs on my body stood on end, the pain electric, hideous as he wove his signature upon my skin, the calligraphy of the sadist. I twitched at first, then fell slack in my ropes, so slack that I heard him pause; he lashed me across my breasts to wake me up, so brutal he drew blood from one of my nipples. I would have asked him to stop, but was in too much pain to speak; my head lolled onto my chest and I was plunged into sweet, merciful darkness.

I do not know how long I spent unconscious; when I came to, I was on the floor, resting in his arms, my hands still bound with the silken rope. He was caressing my hair from my face, offering me sips of water, a little cocaine rubbed into my gums to take the edge off the pain. There were blood-streaks upon his shirt from where my back had brushed against it; his eyes were full of concern and I could see even he was terrified of what he had done. I had never seen that look upon his face, had never known a Torsten who had even considered he might have gone too far, but now that I did, he broke my heart.

"I'm all right, Daddy," I croaked out, clasping his hand.

"My Laura," he hugged me and rocked me in front of the mirror; "my sweet daughter," he sighed into my hair, clutching me like a doll in his arms, the boy-child who had broken his favourite toy. "I--"

"Shh, Daddy," I said, forcing out a little laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Please don't say you didn't mean to; I know you did. And I would've never forgiven you had you been gentler."

He sniffed in his tears, and I noticed there was a little cocaine on his moustache, too. He laughed and wiped his face, wiped his eyes, his nose. "You know, I never could tell which one of us was the bigger slut for pain," he said bluntly. "You're hopeless."

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," I said and nuzzled his hand. "Will you fuck me, now?" I asked, blunt right back at him.

"You'd better believe it," he said as he freed my hands. "Undress Daddy."

I turned around in his arms and kissed him; in front of the mirror, I undressed him with a ritual slowness, freeing him of the remains of his tuxedo, tears welling up in my eyes as I did so for the last time. Never again would I see him dressed up to the nines, immaculate, exquisite, the tallest man in the room; now, there was only the warmth of his long, slim, naked body against mine.

And as I sat in his lap, I kissed his body, kissed it, cupped his muscles, his tendons, his loving, perfect, liberating flesh: possessed of a sudden madness, I wanted to devour him as he had devoured me, mouthing him, biting him, eating him up with my kisses. My Heavenly Father, my Holy Communion, our lovemaking always a transubstantation of the flesh, perfecting us, each fuck an apotheosis. And he let me glorify him by my consumption of him, resting languorous upon the floor as if he were the prey and I the she-wolf; I licked him and kissed him all over until I had tasted every pore upon his body, my tongue rough from his body hair, my jaw aching.

As I turned him over to kiss his ass, I burst into laughter. "You wore it, you dirty old bastard."

He squeezed his ass around the plug and rocked his buttocks playfully as he glanced at me over his shoulder. "I was tempted to wear the tail, too."

I smacked his ass. "Can I taste it?"

"Later." With a growl, he tackled me onto the floor. "Don't you dare think you can be on top tonight, girl. I'm in charge."

"Very well," I laughed and laid down on the floor. "Do your worst."

He leaned over me, kissing his way up my body, nipping purposefully at the welts he had made, sending me spasming, hissing, swearing in pain. "Just opening my package, you see," he purred.

"I'm open," I breathed huskily underneath him, wrapping my legs around him, anointing his erection with the wetness of my pussy. "Can't you see?"

"Yes," he laughed and nuzzled my face. "Get up. I want to watch."

He arranged us so that we were kneeling in front of the mirror, I riding his cock in my pussy, trembling, gasping for air, hysterical from grief as I took him inside of my body for the last time. "Daddy," I cried, my voice little, young; "Daddy," like a child lost at the fair.

"I'm here," he said and held me tight, his arms crushing my ribs as he hugged me, slowly rolling into my body, his cock meeting the back of my womb again, again, again. That exact depth and speed of the thrust, he finding that perfect spot immediately, so soon because I was so open, so wet, so ready. Each single thrust of his struck gold through me, gold and cascades of iridescent joy; I shivered in his embrace, watching as the soft whiteness of my flesh shook, juddered with our movements.

"Please, Daddy. Please let me come."

"So soon?" he laughed, bringing his hands to my pussy, holding it open so that he could watch the entire length of his cock moving in and out of me, long strokes, long strokes to drive me mad from perfection. "Tell me how it feels, first."

"It feels so good, Daddy," I moaned, rocking upon him, giving him the confession he wanted, the confession that made his cock swell even further inside of my flesh. "Feels so good in my pussy, like waves, like honey and light--the colour of dragonflies' wings," I laughed, the child unafraid to talk in surrealities, for these surrealities were the truth. "Oh, Daddy, it feels wonderful."

"What does?"

"Your cock." I turned my head around so that I could look into his eyes, giving him the over-articulation he wanted, needed, the filth on top of the poetry. "I love the way your big cock feels in my little pussy when you fuck me, Daddy."

"Yeah?" he groaned, thrusting so deep into me I jerked in his arms, but I clung to him, thrusting right back.

"Yeah," I laughed. "Look at it," I said, spreading my pussy with him. "All swollen and wet. Does it feel good for you, too, Daddy?"

"It does, Laura, it does," he groaned, groaned louder as I squeezed his cock with my muscles. "It's the most perfect little pussy in the world," he said softly, his lips brushing against my ear. "Feels like honey for Daddy, too, and I can feel those waves going through me as well, every time you sit down on me like that." He laughed softly, in awe; he, too, now innocent and free.

And now, I wondered if these weren't indeed the kinds of things the first lovers in the world had said to each other when spoken language had still been a new invention; whether language itself had been born from the need to speak of one's pleasure to one's beloved.

"You're so good to me, Daddy," I whispered against his mouth, twisting in his embrace, my limbs shaking from the strain; "the most perfect man, the most perfect, I--" but now I choked, too overwhelmed by emotion to speak. If language had been born from love, it was also love that slew language, going so far beyond it; there were no words for this, no words, only the perfection of his body against mine, he buried so deep within my flesh we were one.

"My daughter, my daughter, my daughter," he sobbed, now grabbing my hips and thrusting into me harder, mad from his fury. "My daughter."

"My father," I cried as I fell down onto my hands, my hair tumbling over my face as I pushed back into his thrusts, fucked him, fucked him with all my desperation, all my yearning, all my need. "I was born from your sperm," I keened, biting my lip. "Your cock, Daddy, your cock, this cock, oh, God, Daddy, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me with your cock--"

And he howled, pushing my head down with his hand, fucking me violently, so deep he hurt me, his balls slap-slap-slapping against my pussy; soon I could no longer hear anything apart from my own shouts, my cries, my howls as I came around his cock. His cock, his cock, the cock thanks to which I existed, the holy phallus I lived, breathed, revolved around; his sex, his body, his beauty, my father, my maker, my end. Tears streamed down my face as I screamed out my orgasm, screamed out all my rage, all my hatred, all my pain, all my love. I wished that he would impale me upon this cock, kill me with it, destroy me with it, slay me with this same instrument of pleasure through which I had come into this world.

"Daddy!" I could not stop crying, "Daddy!" and a thousand more repetitions of his name, his essence, all that he was to me, a rosary of love, ecstasy and anguish rolling from my lips onto the floor. And each cry, he beat out of me with his hips, his cock striking perfection through my pussy, through my womb, each blow echoing his name, his glory, his beauty through my flesh. My Daddy, my Daddy, my entire flesh ringing from my Daddy, all of me become but his name, but a song of his glory, the culmination of his existence.

He thrust into me so hard the floorboards creaked, so hard he bruised my cheeks, my hips; he groaned deep from his chest, his breath rattling with death as he poured his sperm into me, specks of his blood spattering onto the floor past my shoulder. Yet he kept on going, rasping, shouting in defiant rage even through his coughing fit, fucking me with such force I slid forwards on the floor, sobbing with his thrusts.

"Laura," he cried, worshipped me, clutched me, flowing into me a living wave, unable to stop moving. "Don't stop, please; please, don't ever stop," he keened, his hands shaking as he clutched my breasts, my hair, my face.

And I didn't; I kept moving my hips underneath him, kept milking his cock with my pussy to keep it hard, urging him on, coaxing his virility into tarrying awhile. "I love you," I gasped underneath him, "love you," I groaned through my teeth, said it with my body, with every slide of my pussy's muscles around his shaft, adoring him, as if with my pussy I could keep him alive a little longer. As long as we kept on fucking, we weren't dead, wasn't that so? So I kept going, squeezing around him, patting for him with my hands. "Stay, Daddy. Stay."

He let out a huffing laugh against my ear, rolling his hips, now. "Do you really want to taste Daddy's ass?"

"Yes, please," I said, excited, like a child promised an ice cream.

I lifted my head and he was already holding the plug out to me, black and smeared richly from the secretions of his body: white, clear, caramel--as its perfection swirled into my mouth, I started to unravel again, a subtler orgasm, my pussy pulsing and pulsing around his prick. I howled around the plug, sending the spheres vibrating inside my skull; he tapped the plug's end to choke me with it and thrust into me, tapping and tapping, slapping my face until I was screaming, gurgling, coming so violently that he gasped in surprise.

"You nearly snapped it off again," he laughed, pulling the plug from my mouth as I was still whimpering underneath him.

"I wasn't expecting it," I slurred, panting on the floor.

"That was beautiful," he said, grinned and threw the plug aside. "Now, come and lick Daddy's ass."

Even in this, he was merciful to me: he arranged himself so that he was lying on his side, facing the mirror, so that we could both watch as I feasted on his ass. I displayed him proudly, spreading his buttocks, now so close to the mirror it misted from my breath; I wiped it clean again so I could show him his true beauty. "It's the prettiest little pussy in the world," I murmured as I kissed it. "So pink, and so full from fucking," I sighed.

"And do you like the taste, my child?" he asked ritually, rocking his hips and stroking his cock lazily, his lashes languid over his eyes.

"Of course I do, Daddy," I said, burying my tongue in the folds, making sure to clean each one with my tongue, groaning whenever I found a richer hint of flavour. "A little metallic, like blood; salty, earthy, delicious."

"Any herbal flavour left?" he laughed.

"Let me see," I said and pulled his ass open with my fingers so that he lamented loudly, his balls lifting as I spread him wide and stuck my tongue as deep as it would go. And yes, yes, there, I found it; my tongue dipped into a streak of herbal, fresh darkness and I moaned in delight into his guts, this the answer he had been hoping for. I sobbed, there, pushed my fingers into him so that I might suck upon them, licking and sucking his taste, this sweetness of his shit never not a shock, never not a beautiful, erotic shock that sent electric tremors through my body. They had lied to us, the entire world had lied to us about this being a taste foul, awful; just as they had lied to us about all pleasure; all. We knew better than any of them, were so much better than them; and now, my tears flowed into my mouth and dissolved the taste of him from my tongue.

"Give me a cock," he groaned, his hand now faster on his cock, nodding towards the toy box. "I'm not going to leave this world un-fucked. Hurry."

"All right," I laughed and wiped my tears with the back of my hand, catching my breath. I picked up the medium-sized white dildo, the one I had used in my harness, and held it out to him. "Will this do?"

"No glycerine," he said, shaking his head. "Put it on the floor and make it ready for me."

I did as I was told. I balanced the dildo on the floor by its end, by its heavy balls and proceeded to fellate it with all my skill. I teased Torsten with the sight, rocking my ass, stroking the cock as if it was his: I gave it my best slide, my messiest, wettest sucks, making it gleam from my mouth. I choked myself on it deliberately so that I could coat it with thick, white mucus; I nearly threw up but kept going for the sake of my father's pleasure, his holy pleasure, rubbing my pussy furiously so that I could use my juices to anoint the dildo further.

"God," he groaned through his teeth, now squeezing the root of his cock, slapping it against his belly. "Suck on me instead," he said and sat on the dildo, sat on it so fast he must have been hurting himself. But I didn't have time to see if he had torn himself because now he was fucking my mouth, fucking my throat in front of the mirror; I regretted not being able to see myself, but this, too, was a part of his domination of me, denying me the sight as he made me into but a mouth to serve his cock. He rode the dildo deep, howling, lascivious, rocking his faggot's hips with a wild abandon, taking the cock and my mouth with whorish greed.

"Lick it, lick it," he said and guided my mouth to his ass, so that I might taste the dildo as it slid in and out of him. And I adored this, stroking my own pussy as I tasted the depths of his flesh, the metal-salt-sugar of his caramel, whimpering underneath him. I licked the ring of his ass, licked as much of the toy as I could, slurping, huffing into his flesh, my face stinging from sweat and tears.

But the position was awkward and we couldn't maintain it for long; soon, he gathered me up with a kiss. "Sit on Daddy's cock," he murmured and gestured for me to get up. "I want you to see it going in your ass."

I stood up in front of him, teasing him a little as I scooped wetness from my pussy, turning around very slowly as I worked spit and pussy juice into my ass with my fingers. "Is this where you want to fuck me, Daddy?" I asked sweetly over my shoulder, rocking my ass, brushing my buttocks against his face.

"Yes, you little slut," he hissed in delight, spitting over my asshole and licking it, snorting into it. "Fuck me."

I faced the mirror and squatted over him, using my weight to lower myself onto his cock. It hurt, hurt so much to take his cock in just like this, even if he kept adding spit, even if he kept rubbing my pussy; yet I was damned if I was going to turn to glycerine, now. I howled in shock as he dipped his cock into my pussy a little to wet it, then back into my ass, then pussy, then ass again--I had never allowed him to do this before simply because of the risk of inflammation, knowing how even mere irritation from ordinary sex could give me a painful infection for weeks. But now, what did we have to worry about? I laughed, a broken-glass laugh, my breath sparkling from cocaine and champagne as he slid into my ass once more. I rubbed my pussy, my little pussy about to die, adored its fullness, its flush in the mirror for the last time in my life.

"Fuck," I groaned, lifting such thick strings of sweetness from my pussy, astounded at how swollen my folds were, how open the mouth of my vagina, my entire vulva like a red, wet flower blossoming from the intensity of his penetration. It was so strange, so strange that my pussy should be at its most beautiful, so open and glorious as it was my ass his cock slid into, yet it did not feel empty, hungry, not empty at all.

"That's what I wanted you to see. Your pussy always looks so amazing when you get fucked in the ass," Torsten murmured, sharing my adoration; "so flushed, your clitoris like a little prick," he laughed, caressing the root of it softly. "You're such a little faggot."

"I take after my father," I laughed at him over my shoulder, then gasped as he slid past the last gate of my flesh behind the womb, so hard, so impossibly long, always like an iron bar in my guts. How something that felt so perfectly sweet inside my pussy no matter what could feel so violent in my ass, I had never understood, but loved nevertheless: I mewled a little, unable to lower myself fully on him, that's how much it hurt at first.

"There we are," he said gently, rubbing my clitoris, kissing the star on my neck. "Settle down on Daddy. Ride Daddy. I'm your horsie, remember?"

"Daddy, you're silly!" I laughed, and that laugh made me slide down on him completely: I whimpered, shuddered, my bent legs spasming, quaking open and closed as I settled into his lap.

He spread my legs on either side of his, holding me close, enjoying the feel of my body upon his as we sat there thus, my weight pressing the dildo deeper into his body. "That feels so good," he murmured, hugging me against himself.

"What does?" I prompted, with a dirty twinkle in my eye--I knew he wanted to tell me, to relish his faggotry for one last time.

He laughed against my mouth, purring. "A big fat cock in my ass when I'm fucking yours, you little brat. And this lovely, lovely little pussy right here," he murmured, rubbing it still, "dripping all over my balls. Shall we have a look to see if we can get you even wetter? Hmm? Make you gush a little for Daddy?"

"I don't know if I can," I said, suddenly unsure; it was impossible to know in advance when I would come so hard I ejaculated. I usually did so only when I was extremely aroused, frantic; now, the soft haze from the pain and my first orgasms had made me calm, far less furious.

He just licked his fingers and returned them to my clitoris, rolling his hips. "Then I'm going to have to make you, don't I? Fuck you so hard you'll piss," and the way he hissed it made my pussy clench and clench underneath his hand. "So that you'll spray out the rest of that champagne. Hmm? What do you say?"

"Daddy--!"

"Right the first time," he laughed and slapped my pussy, beginning to fuck me in earnest.

And he knew exactly what he was doing; even if the position strained me because of the way I had to squat over him, his cock was pressing against the exact spots that always made me gush. He forced me to ride him, made me use the last of my strength to fuck his cock, to satisfy him; he kept one hand on my pussy and clawed at my back, my breasts, tore at me with his nails so violently some of the welts began to bleed once more. And I loved this, loved each scratch, each pain-jolt meeting the violent, white-hot flashes of his cock within my body, sobbing as my orgasm began to rise and rise within me, from that spot behind my womb where Divinity itself lived. He clawed at me with both hands, now, bit me, bit me so hard he left marks, tore into my welts so that his lips were red from my blood; hysterical, I watched myself being eaten, consumed, swallowed, fucked, taken by his mouth and his cock.

"Rub your pussy," he snarled as he took my hips and forced me to ride him faster, guiding the rhythm, so roughly he must have been hurting himself, his breath ragged in his throat. "Rub your pussy while I fuck your ass, you little whore," he groaned, "make yourself come on Daddy's cock."

"Daddy, you're hurting me," I howled, my forehead and my palm against the mirror, the pain, the pleasure shooting up my spine as white light, light, light--

"Good!" he shouted, yanking me back with his arm around my throat, now, fucking me so brutally my pussy, my ass, his own ass made horrible, sloshing, farting noises; he spat in my ear and snarled. "Come for Daddy. That's an order!"

With one last scream, I threw myself back on him, ululating as I fucked myself on his cock, coming, coming. I rubbed my pussy so hard I hurt myself, tugging the hood of my clitoris back so hard it burned, but now, I didn't have to care. I looked down at myself, and for the first and last time in my life, I saw my own pussy clearly as it ejaculated; I howled at the sight. Just below my clitoris, the mouth of my urethra spasming, spasming, and there, there, the spray: I drew in a deep breath and groaned it out from low in my guts, vibrating the sound in the back of my throat and my head for maximum pleasure, for maximum force as I sprayed the mirror with my orgasm. I splashed all over, spraying my thighs; my white and soft body tossing, spasming upon his darker, thinner one, our reflection distorted by the liquid, melting into an Impressionist nightmare.

"More," he snarled, slapping my pussy violently. "Piss."

And helpless, I kept coming, coming, and he kept fucking, fucking: I had no choice. Now, I groaned low and deep once more and forced myself to piss, a clear, bright arc washing my ejaculate off the mirror, Torsten howling deep in his belly as he watched. He clawed at my hips, each deep blow of his cock pressing on my bladder so hard a new spray burst out of me, he sobbing in disbelief behind me.

"Laura, Laura," he cried, scooping my piss into his mouth with his hand, slurping it frantically, his belly rippling behind me; he coughed, swallowed my piss as he came inside my ass, cupping and lapping my piss into his mouth again and again, his entire body spasming violently in the shock of his pleasure. "Laura, Laura," he moaned and clutched me in his fever, his eyes wide and bright as the liquid finally sluiced so far down the mirror I could see him clearly again. "How could I ever repay you?"

I was a panting, shattered wreck in his arms, collapsed against him, slipping on him in the wet mess, my legs cramping. "I don't know, Daddy, I--oh, God, no, you're not--"

"Yes," he laughed as I felt a warm, liquid pressure expanding in my ass, warmer, more voluminous than his sperm could ever be. "Yes, my little darling," he said and held his hand to my belly, "yes."

"You are a sick old fuck," I told him, the terrified child so shamed; I daren't move at all lest I spilled his piss out. "You're awful, you're horrible, you're disgusting," I simpered, leaning back against him, relishing my fate.

"Yes. Yes, I am," he crooned. "Now. Tell me. What's your little ass full of, right now? Three things."

I teased him a little; I had to. I put my hand to my mouth, the child pondering, wondering: "I think I've forgotten, Daddy."

"No, you haven't. We just haven't played this game for a long time, but just like riding a bicycle, you never forget a thing like that. It's the delicious-most, yummiest-most thing you and I make together, remember?"

I nodded, over-eager. "I think I do know now, Daddy."

"Good girl." He smiled and took me by the hips, spread me and lifted me up until only the tip of his cock was nestled within my ass, a little fluid trickling out already. "Now, I'm going to count to three. On three, you will say it, and I will pull out. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"One," and he swayed a little so that I giggled; "two," and he bit my arm until I squealed, "three!"

"Piss and shit and come!" I laughed, shrieked in disgusting, childish delight as all three burst explosively out of my ass. I gaped, gaped open and red and wide, my ass heaving, farting, the mess splashing onto the floor before us. "Oh, God!" I screamed.

"God's not here, my child, remember?" Torsten laughed. "Go on. There's a little more left," he said, tugging my ass open with both hands. "Push."

And there, I looked inside my own guts, completely without shame as I pushed out piss and shit and come, our holy triple elixir onto the floor from my abused ass, my pussy slurping, gleaming red and full as I emptied myself this way. My father and I combined, our filth, our pleasure all mixed together into this one substance, symbolic of our transdescension of all taboos: I sobbed in pleasure as I watched it, watched my ass close into a tiny little bud once more, the way Torsten smoothed it tenderly with his fingertips.

We fed this elixir to one another, sucking it off each other's bodies; the most perverse way of cleaning each other, sucking the filth into our mouths, swallowing our sickness. Soixante-neuf, we lay there, he lapping at my pussy and my ass and my buttocks; I cleaned his cock so thoroughly with my mouth not a trace of filth remained.

"How on earth can you still be hard?" I laughed as I collapsed beside him, letting his cock slip from my mouth.

He nestled his head against my pussy. "I took a little pill. It's meant to give you priapism to the point where it gets dangerous and they might have to cut your cock off," he snorted. "I'd always wanted to try it, so I thought it was now or never. And I want to show up at Hell's door looking my best. Give the devils something to be jealous about."

"You will," I said and kissed his cock.

"And now we're done, aren't we, Daddy?" I sighed quietly.

He played with the down on my belly, nuzzling into my thighs the way he always did before falling asleep there. "I think we are, my child."

"Do you have any regrets?"

"None."

"Neither do I," I said, defiant, casting out all doubts from my mind. "Where are the letters?"

"A last smoke, first," he said and dug out his silver cigarette box.

So there we sat, on my child's bed, holding each other, smoking as night fell.

"I was sure I had something else to say," I mumbled as I let ash fall from my cigarette onto the carpet. "Is there any perversion we missed?"

"Best not to think about things like that," he laughed, a little dryly; "I wouldn't be able to bear it if we'd forgotten something."

He gazed out of the window; we had finally reached that short spell of darkness that remained on either side of midnight this time of the year. He held me in his arms and I rested there, both of us quietly watching the cascading falls. This water would keep on flowing forever, long after we were gone; no matter what the situation in Europe, the midnight sun would still take over in about a week and bathe the valley in perpetual light. You'd still be able to walk in the woods and find your way at night; a month from now, you would be able to pick blueberries at three o'clock at night.

"Blueberries," I murmured.

"What's that?"

"I was picking blueberries that day I came home from school, when I was seven," I said. "Do you remember?"

He threw back his head and laughed. He collected the cigarettes from us, stumped them, then hugged me tight, rocking me in his arms. "Yes. Yes, I do remember. I thought you'd been painting your lips, you see. My little baby vamp."

"I had," I said, nuzzling his face, adoring the rasp of his moustache against my cheek. "I would've done it more carefully had I known you were coming."

"You looked beautiful," he said quietly, looking at my face up and down, his gaze lingering upon my lips, my eyes, my hair. "You always did."

Now, I could no longer hold back my tears--and why hold them back at a moment like this? "And I had never seen a man as handsome as you, Daddy," I said. "Every time I saw you, I felt this tightness in my chest, right here," I said, taking his hand between my breasts. "My heart was always pounding, the moment I smelled your cologne."

"And every time I saw you, I wondered if you were mine," he said, kissing my forehead. "I don't doubt it, now. I've been thinking about it, and I'm absolutely certain it was me. Margit would not have had me sterilised had she not been sure. She was afraid I'd do it again."

"That's what I thought," I said and nuzzled his cheek. "I should hate you for not having told me earlier, but what's the point?"

He shook his head. "I didn't know earlier. It took a while for me to understand it myself. But what matters is that I love you, and that I have always loved you." He took my hand and kissed it.

"And I love you, Daddy," I said and kissed his hand in turn, my heart light. "So much."

We lay there on the bed for a while longer; we knew we had to finish soon. We tarried, perhaps out of some small fear of the unknown, perhaps out of the need to share each other's warmth as long as we could. The darkness wouldn't last long, and we had to end it all before dawn.

The clock struck midnight, and still we lay there; I became eighteen, became a millionairess, but that no longer mattered: only our final act mattered.

There was a bright flash in the sky--two shooting stars, falling down from the heavens, disappearing over the falls.

Both of us laughed out loud in astonishment. "That's our cue," Torsten said.

"Have you laid out the charges?"

"Mm-hmm. But I lied. One more last cigarette."

And with that last-last cigarette, he lit the fuse that travelled from this room and branched into all the other rooms in the house, to each building upon the estate. The entire house reeked of gasoline, naphthaline; I didn't know if it had been dynamite in those carts he had taken to the stables and I hadn't asked.

"The letters," I said and dug them out of the pocket of his tuxedo.

He clasped his hand over mine. "Let's do it properly," he said and kissed me. "Come," he said and arranged himself comfortably on the bed, his cock still half-erect. "Sit on me."

As I kissed his cock into full hardness, I heard a loud boom and a crash, something that could only have been the sound of a small building collapsing--it had to have been dynamite in the stables, then. The earth was still shaking, I laughing as I pulled my mouth off Torsten's cock and sat on it. "Read mine first, Daddy."

He sat up so that we were embracing, my arms and my legs around him, his cock deep in my pussy, my heartbeat against his. He cleared his throat and began, with the pride of a father reading an essay his daughter had got full marks for.

My sweet, sweet Daddy, my Heavenly Father,

Thank you for everything.

You and you alone, out of all the people in this world let me be myself, let me grow up into the Laura I truly was, and let me be her until the very end. And even if I did not live to an old age, you gave me so much of your experience, so much of your knowledge, so much of your capacity for pleasure that I do not regret a single day of it; each day has been rich and meaningful. I know for a fact that most women, millionairesses or not, are never allowed a life as full, as full of freedom as the life you have given me. You saved me from being suffocated by institutions, by schools and asylums and families; you saved me from unhappy marriages, from children, from obligations towards a society that has never understood people like us.

The pathetic wretches who call themselves philanthropists spend all their lives helping out the poor and the needy, those losers who can't appreciate what they are given, parasites who keep sucking them dry without an ounce of gratitude or understanding. Yet in your focusing on corrupting me, debauching me and fulfilling me, you have done more good than those people ever will in decades of wasting their favours on fools. And for your guidance and your companionship, I am eternally grateful.

You have been the best father a girl could ever wish for, the only true friend I have ever had, a lover beyond compare. And now that we are leaving this world, I want you to know that my life has been complete, beautiful, perfect, lacking nothing. We did it together, you and I; we pressed out every ounce of golden pleasure from each day we were given, filled our chalice to the overflowing and drank it dry.

We did it, Father; we made it. They never caught us. We succeeded, we won.

And now we shall die as we should, at the peak of our powers and our grace; you still the most handsome man, the most beautiful woman I've ever known, and I the child, the little girl untainted by age, forever the maiden goddess.

I love you, my sweet Daddy, my Heavenly Father, and I will see you in Hell. Its throne awaits us, does it not?

Father Hades, your Persephone places her hand in yours and cannot wait to ascend.

Your little girl, forever and always,

Laura Erika.

His voice choked, now; the piece of paper trembled and he was coughing into his hand, another cough full of blood. "Laura--"

"Shh," I said, kissing him, kissing him until my mouth was wet from his blood; now the smoke was entering our room, making it even more difficult for him to breathe. "It'll stop hurting soon, Daddy," I said, weeping myself as I wiped his tears from his eyes, kissed them from his cheeks. "Now, let me read yours."

He sniffed and handed the letter to me, taking deep, shuddering breaths, his arms firm and tight around my back, his head pressed against my breasts. I caressed his head and rocked him against myself as I read his words, dizzy from lack of oxygen, dizzy from my tears.

Cleopatra Philopator, Glory of her Father, Love of her Father, my beloved, beloved Daughter--

This may be the morphine talking, but if one cannot be sentimental, emotional and Romantic on the cusp of one's death, when can one be? Especially since you have always understood these things in me, and these are the very same qualities I have always loved in you. And I know you will understand me now, as you have always understood me, with the same knowledge of the soul we have shared ever since you were born.

What to say? What haven't I said before? All the observations I have ever made of you still hold true. I saw your potential from the start, but even in my wildest dreams, never did I imagine we would be able to get away with all these things we've done. But look at us now! At first, I doubted myself, my fantasies of you as but another folly I would amuse myself with and then find empty on the inside, realising my dreams were but that: dreams.

But not with you, Laura. Never you. You became so much more than just a child to debauch; so many times I've told you that not only were you the perfect partner for me, but also the female half of my self, the woman I had always wanted to be. It was as if I was watching myself grow as I watched you grow into the woman you are now, and with each new pleasure, each new conflagration of desire you experienced, I felt those self-same flames in my own body. And whenever you were hurt, I was hurt, too; in this we were never separate, but the same human being split into two bodies, the same soul moving through two people at once.

But when I found you, Laura, that soul in me was dying; Torsten Barring thought he had experienced all the pleasures life had to offer, and he was consumed with apathy. Perhaps I had only become the male, the inanimate body without a soul, an empty shell--I am thinking of the way the Hindus speak of the life force as being essentially feminine, and in you I found it, my Shakti. In you I emptied myself, poured all of my self into you, and in turn you became my skeleton, my musculature, my skin holding me upright and together, enabling me to move, live, laugh, ravish again. I was a corpse, and you returned me to life; your yearning gave me a purpose, a project. Oh, I have to laugh: isn't this what people say happens when they become parents?

But you were so much more to me than a mere daughter, my child, so much more; in a sense, you gave birth to me, a new Torsten created by your desire, a new Torsten taking shape in the reflection I saw in your lust-dilated eyes. I was astonished at this new man, at the strength you gave him with each one of your submissions, your body my kingdom, your pleasure my crown and sceptre.

I thought to perfect you, and you perfected me instead. It's only fitting that now that we have done it all, we should move onto a new plane of existence. Our souls--nay, our one, undivided soul is ready.

My conqueror. My queen. My empress.

We stand upon the threshold of an entirely new adventure; a new door is opening for us, and my heart aches from joy in the knowledge that I can embark on this journey with your little hand in mine.

I love you. Always have, and always will, until the last flame of Hell is extinguished and all is silent.

Yours yesterday, today and unto eternity,

Your Daddy.

I let go of the letter and hugged him, howled against him, both of us weeping openly; now, the windows started to shatter downstairs as their frames snapped, the entire building creaking, black smoke billowing in through the door. I could see flames from the corner of my eye, never having realised how loud, how noisy a fire could be: it swallowed us, an inferno echoing the one we were about to enter.

"Quickly," Torsten coughed, weak from the smoke. He fumbled for the box on the bedside table and lifted out the large piece of candy inside of it. Two cyanide capsules hidden within one piece of soft, gelatinous candy: we were to bite into it simultaneously, so that we might die at the exact same time. I wanted to swallow it immediately, wanted to take it now so that I would not die a hideous death scorched by the flames. But he had insisted on this ritual: for the last time, we made love as we passed the deadly candy from mouth to mouth, slowly wearing away the sweetness, kissing each other to death. I rode him, and with death in his mouth he devoured my breasts; he turned me onto my back and fucked me, licking at the candy that was now in my mouth, sucking it into his own mouth as he thrust into me.

But now, the flames rose higher, higher: the wallpaper caught fire, the flames licking up the ceiling, and we knew the time had come. He laid on top of me, hard and heavy on top of me, my beloved Father's cock in my little baby pussy, perfect, perfect.

"Now, Daddy," I said, and held the candy between my teeth.

He snapped it in half with his teeth and bit into it, just as I bit into mine: the bitter taste of almonds burned my tongue, hideous, awful. Three minutes, he'd said; three minutes and we would be dead. I sobbed hysterically, weeping as he did, he shouting, groaning, thrusting into me so hard it hurt; I clung to him even as I felt my strength ebbing, felt my limbs growing cold.

"I love you, Laura," he whispered, the sky in his eyes now clouded, tears streaming down his face.

"And I love you, Daddy," I said, "so much."

He fell dead.

For a while, I adored his corpse, made love to it even as my own body started to die. The perfect weight of him atop me, my Father's perfect beauty even in death; even as he lay dead, I kept on kissing him, milking him with my pussy. The last thing I could feel was his death ejaculation, the way my pussy pulsed for one last time, sucking his sperm into my dead and cold womb; with one last tremor of pleasure, I, too, was gone.

***

And still, they say, should you walk into the forest late on a midsummer night, you can hear the whisper of the Devil and his daughter upon the wind. They say that if you sit very still among the birches and listen very closely, you can hear the crackling of flames, feel their heat upon your face and hear a pair of voices laughing: the little girl and her father, dancing forever in Hell.

***

END

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