Emily barely noticed the movement of her dad’s fist before it connected with the side of her head, dropping her to the floor in an instant. She laid there, sobbing softly, trying not to throw up as everything spun around her. She feebly pushed herself up before he grabbed her hair and jerked her up to her knees, angling her head towards his face.

In the past, she would have begged, but she knew better these days. Begging only got you hit more, even crying often got you hit more. And since bruises drew attention, he focused them elsewhere. Her chest, her sex, and his favorite, her head. Instead, she did as expected and smiled at him through tear stained eyes, clinging to his leg.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she said, and he jerked her head back, spit on her face, but then roughly yet expertly began fingering her. He had told her that he liked the duality of things, abuse and love, pain and lust, violence and cuddling. She believed him. She knew he was right, as he was at most things. He was right about her being a cunt, about her being stupid, about her being broken. She knew he was right because she was wet before he even touched her, despite her head still ringing, soaked. His fingers entered her cunt, his cunt, easily as he kissed her deeply. She tensed her thighs around his hand and then screamed into his mouth as his thumb and finger mashed her clit. Then she was stood up by him, still crushing her bud, before he shoved her hard into her bedroom wall. Her back and head bounced off the drywall, dazed, sliding down before his hand grabbed her throat.