She likes when she’s pushed against the bed frame, the high headboard of her princess bed solid behind her. It provides a rhythm, something against which she can arch the small of her back and lift herself up to meet him as he greedily clutches her buttocks and drives into her. Her arms are around his neck, hands drooping to the down on his back, her small breasts dwarfed by his saggy pectoral muscles are taut as his chest hair rubs up against them, teasing to an almost unbearable sensation. She leans forward into him, her feet stretched out till her pointé is perfect just like she learnt in ballet.

Mold yourself to your partner, mirror his movements.

She pushes into him, meeting his thrusts with little ones of her own, her tiny pelvis grinding against the scrub on his groin, drawn out grunts of exertion escaping her as he pushes into her slowly, deliberately, each thrust starting from his diaphragm, travelling down in a slow wave of tautening muscles and finishing with finishing with a tip to hilt burial. She leans back and watches herself get invaded over and over, the fluidity of his technique fascinating to watch in her lustful haze, his feints hitting her in secret places and making her thighs tremble. His belly is a maze of indented lines and rippling muscle under his pale skin and in the delirium of ecstasy, she is tempted to trace them one by one, till she reaches the source of her pleasure. Her dancer feet find the swell of his buttocks and kneads them, a gentle urging to a faster, urgent rhythm.

 You are the delicate swan to his brusque stout lion, graceful.

“Sit on me.” He says and flips her off him.

She obeys and clambers on, the smooth insides of her hairless thighs mooring against the outside of his rough hirsute ones. She sinks smoothly onto him and settles. The tempo is hers now. She’s not a doll being used anymore. She imagines someone else, a prince, questing for her hand, fairly won and claiming his prize given voluntarily by her. He’s mewling under her. In this position, he loses all his masculinity and whimpers as she exceeds what he has taught her and shows him how much more she has learnt on her own.


He says it once, softly and it throws her. She slows and her eyes flutter open and find his face, He’s still mewling, eyes tightly shut, pupils fluttering underneath. He has never called her by his woman’s name before. She contemplates this as her princely conjuring flutters away and the reality weighs down on her, threatens her sanity. In the swirl of emotions, she latches on the most irrational one and holds tight.

He comes to me because he cannot bear me with anyone else. I must show him I understand.

Her hips circle in half circles, clockwise, counter clockwise. She is too close to his groin, her buttocks are too delicate, she knows this but she continues to twist into him, pushing till he sputters and spasms under her. There is a rash of pain, small swaths of her buttocks have rubbed raw. She crawls off him and curls into a circle, her duvet cradles between her still trembling thighs.

He kisses her cheek, starts to shuffle off the bed.

“You were so good. I love you.”

He walks out of the room stark naked, briefs bunched in his hand. She doesn’t look as he leaves.

“I love you too, Papa.”

“What the fuck was he doing to you?” His anger is like hell, hot on her face. She tries for contriteness, but only barely.

“Have you ever fucked someone you didn’t like?” She asks offhandedly.

He pauses, looking at her cock-eyed. She has never used that word before in front of him before, let alone in a sexual context. How she knew he was fucking the neighbour’s ugly spinster sister, he had no idea, but she knows.

“Did not liking the person make the fucking any less perfect?” She continues, taking his silence as assent. He’s still silent.

“It’s the same, except that I hate him.”

He sits beside her on the stoop of their quaint bungalow, shoulders hunched in horrified defeat.

“Why doesn’t he fuck Luna? She’s his girlfriend, not you.”

She starts to cry, little patters that splat on the concrete step. Left, right, left, they fall in synchrony.

“He calls me by her name, y’know, when we’re fucking. He always calls me by her…”

He puts his hands over his ears. He saw his father saunter out of her room, penis dangling proudly between his legs as he snuck back to the master bedroom to rejoin his girlfriend, Luna. It had paralyzed him where he sat in the toilet at the end of the corridor, peeping through the keyhole, the smouldering roll of weed hidden between his fingers spilling ash into his palm. That vision was more than enough; he didn’t want to hear the filth pouring out of her fourteen year old mouth.

He slaps her flush across the mouth, knocking her into the concrete wall from which the stoop protruded.

“Shut it, I don’t wanna hear. Doing stretches and splits everywhere, flashing your pum, fucking ballet whore.”

The patter of tears become rivulets, the rain that accompanies the rumbling sobs in her chest. He pulls her to himself and she cries into his plaid shirt, soaking it. They were not different, him and her. Their father had a thing for messing around with black women and running off with the kids he could snatch. He hadn’t been so lucky since snatching their baby sister, Kee got him in jail for four years. Luna was one of them crazies that visited inmates, courted dangerous men. It was disappointing that she settled for a baby thief. It didn’t matter, no woman would stand for that, if he told Luna, one way or another it would stop.

“I’ll fix him up. Don’t worry, Bae.”

She sniffles and sidles her head into him, the left temple already swelling the force of his slap.

“I’m sorry.”

“You little shit.”

He hits the boy. Prison toughened him up, taught him how to kill a man with his fists. The boy groans in the chair. His right eye is swollen shut, his lip split, and his cheek is weeping blood where it was dragged against the floor.

“You want to send me back to jail?”

He hits the boy again. A flurry of punches to the gut, the boy hunches forward to protect his sides but his arms strain behind him, tethered to the back of the metal chair on which he was restrained. The boy has never seen death before, not like how it radiates from his father’s murderous eyes. He’d liked Luna, even though she was dumb for picking his father. Once he’d closed his eyes and imagined his mother with her eyes, and cheeks and smile. He’d felt a little bad after when he remembered his father had stolen him. She hadn’t helped them. She had listened quietly and when he was done, she’d turned and left them, taking nothing but her purse. They waited for her, but instead their father came home with a murderous rage. He didn’t want to die like this. He didn’t want to die for trying to do the right thing.

“You want to know something?”

“Please, no.” The boy manages to say through the spittle and blood clamming up his gums. No one’s listening.

His father has her by the hair. “What she never told you is how much she liked it. When I’m fucking her, she be whimpering cos she don’t want me to stop. She sit on it and ride me like they pay her for it.”

He looks away, ignoring the pain lancing through the side of his face. The older man is incredulous.

“You don’t believe me?”

He drags her down to her knees and undoes his fly.

“Get to it.”

She looks at her brother in the eye, whose head snaps back to them involuntarily. Wide, sauce red eyes, brimming as her lips tremble. The accusation doesn’t need to be said out loud.

‘you promised you would fix this’.

 She turns wearily and pushes her hand through the yawn in her father’s pants. Rage takes him and his mind clouds over, adrenalin immolating him from the inside. He roars and rears against the ropes that bind his waist to the chair and they snap and break. The metal chair soars over his head and bludgeons their father’s and the buff body, honed by prison gymnastics deflates like a broken accordion. She shrieks and scrambles away and continued to shriek as the metal chair still tied to his hands reverses and returns to their father’s crumbled body, each impact shattering bone and denting muscle, till all that was left is a puddle of spreading blood around a vaguely human island of fractured, shredded flesh.

The lattice that constitutes the back rest breaks unceremoniously, and his fugue clears. And they stare at their creation, lips unmoving for fear that a word will reverse the horror they’ve wrought and bring the man back.

“We have to get rid of it.” She whispers finally, pointing away from the mess.

 His eyes follow her hand and pick up the thing that has riveted her. It’s a wig of greasy black hair, some strands still slick and low, the rest dishevelled, the whole thing still attached to one third of a slick spongy skull.

He picks it up and it shoots through his spastic fingers and clatters to the floor.

The salt soaks up the blood nicely, each crystal swelling and losing its shiny translucent lustre for a dull maroon soul. He pats the red grains into a little mound and drags it across the floor, soaking up the coagulating residue of their father’s life. She sprinkles more salt as he works, periodically holding out a cellophane sack for him to deposit a patty cake of bloodied salt. The silence is powerful, as was the chasm that separates this second from the hour before. He looks up at her, and the words gurgle up. Instead he says.

“More salt.”

The shower blasts him mercilessly, it is 3am and the flow was strong. He pretends not to notice as his hands shake around the bar of soap and his skin already wrinkling around it. He wants to stay here, forever, till the blasts wash the colour out of his skin and left him bleached and empty. He feels her like a presence behind him, fidgeting on the balls of her feet, frightened by his rage but driven by an overwhelming need to comfort him.

She knows. He doesn’t have to tell her. She is afraid, maybe even more than he is. He is all that was left in the world for her now. She approaches him slowly, shadowing him till she is close enough to feel the droplets ricochet off his back on to her skin. The moment comes and she takes it and wraps her hands around him from behind. She holds him as he begins to sob, and holds him till they stop and holds him till he acknowledges her with a hand on her thigh. His penis hardens as her hand travels and strokes. He has their father’s libido, and his rage, and both she knows how to sate it and stoke it as needed, like she’d done when she told their father about his plan to tell Luna about them. He’d never seemed as powerful as the old man, but in those moments when that chair went to work, she saw that he was even greater. She’d promised him once; he wouldn’t have to share her with anyone. She made good on her promises.  


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