Chapter 10

Having learned that their 13-year-old daughter had run away to a dangerous area of a major urban city to consort with gang members, most parents would have been relieved, if concerned, for her well-being upon her return. And while I'm sure that most parents would punish such a child in some way, they would also get her to a psychiatrist, maybe even into a mental hospital, to treat what was obviously disturbing behavior.

My dad wasn't one of those parents and I knew it. That's why I was so scared when he entered my bedroom.

He'd talked to Captain Zuiker downstairs for nearly an hour and I had no idea what he'd been told. Burying my face into my bedspread I shivered with fear as I listened to him empty the contents of my purse onto my bedroom floor. I didn't see him do this because I was cuddled up away from him. He had yet to say a word but I could feel the anger radiating from his body. I also heard him shuffling through what had been in my purse: a couple of tampons, my cell phone, my change-purse. The fact that he hadn't spoke yet scared me more than if he'd stormed into my room screaming.

Minutes passed in silence as I shivered against the wall. Finally I heard his hardened voice. It wasn't raised but it was threatening and cold. "The Cleveland cops said you were found in a gangbanger's house."

I nodded into my covers. He would never believe the real truth and I was too smart to risk telling him it. Hell, the real truth of what I'd gone through would probably have only made him madder. He would never feel any sympathy for me for what the cops had done but he would have been furious that I'd over to a gang-member's house willing and had planned on attending a party with him. In some ways the lies the cops had told him were probably better.

"They said the doctors say you're alright," he said, voice still hard and cold. "Said you aren't knocked up, no long-term damage. You know how fucking lucky you are?"

My pubescent body curled itself up tighter under my blankets. I hadn't seen any doctors. I had no idea what he was talking about but figured that Zuiker had given him a plausible story about what had happened to me.

"You were whoring for some gangbangers," he said. A declaration. "Here we've been worried sick, your brothers and I, and you're off fucking for the profit of some niggers in the ghetto!"

His voice was loud, now, and I started to weep. Captain Zuiker had really told him a doozie, but who would he believe? His own daughter or a man of the law? My father was the type of person who rooted for even the corrupt cops in TV movies. A former Army Reservist, he truly believed that all persons in uniform were honest and just. Since I didn't know exactly what Zuiker had told him, and how much of this was in his head, I remained quiet and tried not to cry too loud.

He slapped me through my thick comforter, wrapped up around me, right on my still healing ass. He said, "You gonna deny it? Huh? See what I found in your purse? You think I don't know what this is?"

They were my contraception pills, of course, that he held up for me as I peaked out from my covers. I groaned inwardly, suddenly wishing I'd hidden them in my closet with my other incriminating stuff before going to meet Lee. The circular container was inside a plastic potato chips bag, my lame attempt to keep it hidden. I hadn't seen those pills in days and had forgotten they were there. My dad demanded of me, "You're on the fucking pill! How long, tell me!"

"I don't, I don't... ," I stammered.

"You're a whore!" he yelled, apparently not interested in hearing my answer. He threw the small bag at the back of my head and I winced, pushing my face deep into my mattress and away from him again.

"If your mother knew about this, if she fucking knew! Going out into the ghetto, whoring yourself for nigger gangbangers, she'd die all over again," he said, his voice full of seething anger. I cringed, sensing his coming blow. I'd never heard my dad sound so angry and worked up before but I knew his moods. When he grabbed me by my right arm and pulled me out from my bedspread I wasn't surprised, only scared.

"Why!" he screamed into my face. "Why! Why!"

He shook my body from side to side, gripping me by my upper arms, and I saw tears streaming down his cheeks. I cried, too, but he responded by letting go of one arm to slap me. His large thick body engulfed my entire vision and that scared me even more than the racist police had. I was on my knees on my bed and he continued to shake me violently before sitting down on the mattress and tossing my small form across his legs.

"This what you need more of, huh?" he yelled as he roughly pulled at my loose jeans. The front button snapped off from the force and I yelped in pain as he pulled them down my legs. I wasn't wearing panties because the cops hadn't returned them to me seeing as they'd cut them off my body. I blushed and sobbed when he went still at the sight of my round naked ass.

"What kind of girl goes around not wearing underwear?" his harsh voice whispered. "What kind of a slut does that! Huh? Didn't I raise you right? Tell me!"

"Daddy, please!" I begged. He was pushing me down by the small of my back, right into his lap. The pressure was so hard that even if I hadn't still been recovering from the beating I'd received a week earlier it would have hurt terribly. I screamed for a moment then cried, "Stop, it hurts!"

"No, no stopping," he said, whispering again. "I thought I disciplined you properly growing up. But I must have been too soft on you, way too soft. Not anymore!"

With that he started to spank me and my already bruised ass screamed with pain. I kicked my legs behind me and tried to squirm away from his punishing blows but it was no use. All the kicking accomplished was sending my untied shoes and dangling jeans to the floor and all the screaming accomplished was more and more blows of his thick hand onto my tiny behind. He kept yelling, almost nonsensically, but I barely heard him.

As had been happening for a while now during his spankings my body started to break through the pain and experience something different: arousal.

No! I told myself. I'd rather feel any amount of pain than any inch of pleasure by his hand. It was no use, though. My charged up and confused teenage body started to grow warm and tingly. I stopped kicking though his blows didn't cease. I stopped struggling and just whimpered in his lap. I could feel a hard-on beneath my tummy and I just grunted, scared and worked up, through the rest of the spanking.

He finally finished and he sounded out of breath. The hand that had been punishing me now rested on my sore and throbbing ass. He was breathing heavily as he started to gently rub what he'd just been brutalizing. I whimpered some more, desperate not to betray my state of arousal by moaning or making any sound of pleasure. When his hand slid between my legs I braced my body, shocked that he would dare touch me there. I bit my lower lip as his hand made contact with my soft pussy from behind.

He jumped up and not a moment too soon. One more second of feeling my father's calloused hand on my pussy and I would have moaned for sure. He tossed me with a violent force back onto my mattress and pointed a trembling finger at me, "What kind of a whore gets wet from a father's spanking, huh? What kind of whore have I raised!"

I sobbed and scooted back away from him. He was literally crying now and I'd never seen my father cry. He said, "Your mother's dying request ... fuck, fuck, Becky! Her last words to me were to beg that I make sure you received a good Catholic upbringing. You know how much I sacrificed to make sure you could attend that fucking school? To make sure you grew up to be a proper lady? To fulfill your mom's dying wish? Do you?"

"Daddy, I--," I started to sob, but he still had no interest in listening.

"Shut up!" he yelled, suddenly jumping onto the bed and grabbing me so fast I didn't have a chance to react. He threw me onto my back and gripped me around the throat. He started to squeeze, all the while sobbing, just as I placed my puny hands around his thick forearms.

"Just a whore, just a god-damned whore!" he sobbed. His hands squeezed harder and harder and everything started to fade. I was sure he was going to kill me. I'd always felt he had that kind of temper in him but even so I never thought for a moment my life would end like this. Despite everything I'd always believed my father loved me too much to do me any serious harm.

Just before losing consciousness he let go and collapsed on top of me. I inhaled as much air as I could but his chest was pressing against my face. I fought to turn it, managed to do so just enough, and breathed in some more. After a moment everything grew silent. My lungs filled with air and I managed to contain my sobs.

The sounds of his belt buckle unclasping broke the silence after a couple of minutes. That made me start to sob audibly again. He was deathly quiet, though. He maneuvered my legs apart then gripped me by my waist and pulled me forward. I knew now for sure what was coming and couldn't keep myself from saying, "Daddy, please, don't!"

"You be quiet," he muttered. He wasn't making eye contact with me. I closed my eyes and sobbed as I felt him adjust the position of my lower body a little more then felt him loom over me again. I peaked for a moment and saw only his chest, but then I felt something hard and thick start to press against the entrance to my vagina.

My body came to life, struggling with renewed energy and momentarily dislodging my father's penis. Without a word he pushed down hard on my chest, his massive hand making contact with my breasts through my blouse, and place his hard member back on my vagina. With one hard and brutal motion of his hips I felt his giant cock force its way inside my wetness. Despite all the sex I'd had over the last week my vagina wasn't ready for something so large and pain radiated from my sex. I cried and moaned as I felt his unrelenting cock press apart my insides. My dad, still silent as a ghost, didn't pause for a moment to let me adjust to his girth.

"Daddy, Daddy, it hurts!" I sobbed. A moment later I screamed when he slapped forward inside of me the rest of his long cock. I could feel the head of his dick press against my cervix and I blubbered from the pain. A moment passed, then another, and he finally started to pull back, then slide forward, and again, and again...

As always the pain disappeared after a few strokes as my body responded to his fucking. My body didn't care that this was my father, the man who had held me moments after my birth and raised me ever since. Instead it just grew warm all over and my sensitive nipples turned hard. My breathing grew labored and breathy and wanton. My toes curled down into my comforter and I raised my lower half up, clenching my buttocks together and reeling from the fullness, the completeness, I was experiencing. An orgasm was coming and for a moment I was lost to it, a slave to all its joy.

But even if my body didn't care my mind sure did. A second before climaxing I came to my senses and willed down the orgasm, determined not to cum by my daddy's rape. I forced myself to start crying again but even in my own ears it sounded fake and forced. The entirety of my situation hit me then and suddenly my forced sobs turned into real ones. My arms, which had been lifeless at my side, came up and pushed futilely at my dad's ribcage. "Stop, no, please!" I begged over the sounds of his cock slapping in and out of my tight cunt.

He didn't say a word. Not one word. He ignored my weak effort to push him away and never looked down at my pleading eyes. He just continued to rut me, his little girl, over and over again. The feeling of his balls slapping against my ass, the feeling of his cock filling and emptying me over and over, these became my entire world as I closed my eyes and embraced the darkness.

Out of nowhere my sensible mind found its escape. I found myself fantasizing about church. Father DeGrazia giving his Sunday sermon, me taking communion, confessing my sins. Memories of my first communion filled my thoughts next and I remembered how silly my dad had looked in a suit that day since he never wore them. I remembered my brothers complaining about having to go, how my dad had forced them to anyway, how we'd all gone out for brunch afterward...

My escape was interrupted when my dad finally made a sound, a loud grunt that rang between my ears. He was gripping my waist and holding his cock deep inside me and I could feel it pulse. Just then my body regained control over my consciousness and I made a little squeaking noise. A terrible orgasm was starting and there was no way I could escape it this time. My squeak got louder and louder until, just as my father erupted his sperm inside me, the same sperm that had created me, my squeak turned into a long, low, "Ohhhhhh!" sound as I finally exploded with an orgasm of my own.

Everything grew quiet after I finally cut off my long, soft moan. Other then my legs shuddering involuntarily for a moment, neither of us moved. I could feel my daddy's gigantic cock slowly shrink inside of me and then he pulled it out with a slick, wet-sounding motion. His semen dribbled out of my cunt as he got up and turned his back to the bed. I pressed my legs together and curled up, still facing him, as he buckled up his jeans.

"Tomorrow morning we have to go to the police station for some paperwork," he said in a soft voice. "Be up by seven."

I watched him walk to my bedroom door, grip the doorknob, then pause. For a moment it looked like he wanted to say something else to me but instead he just sighed and left the room.

In a daze I pulled my comforter up around my half naked body and curled up again. I fell asleep with the lights on and without a thought inside my confused and traumatized head.

At the local police station the next morning my dad had to fill out some forms and I had to be interviewed by a detective and a social worker. The interview was shorter than I'd thought it would be. After being told I'd have to go through it I'd feared it would be a big ordeal. It wasn't. That was a relief.

Mainly it was the social worker who did the talking, wanting to know what had motivated me to hang out with gang-members in the first place.

"I just ... thought it'd be fun," I lied, unable to make eye contact with the serious looking woman. "When they wouldn't let me leave I got ... scared."

"Did they hurt you at all?" the woman pressed. "Becky, did any of those men ... do anything to you? Other than the beatings we discussed?"

I shook my head and watched the serious woman give the bored detective a skeptical look. He said, "It's all here in Cleveland's report. Hospital examined her, found no serious injuries."

"Rape kit?" the woman asked.

The man tapped the folder again. "Negative. The assholes probably only kept her 'cause they didn't know what else to do with her. She said herself in her interview with CPD they only informed her she wasn't going to be going home after she saw their stash of guns and drugs."

The Cleveland cops had done an excellent job of falsifying their reports. The local detective didn't doubt their authenticity for a second. It was sort of annoying but also sort of a relief.

"Very well," the social worker sighed. "I'm going to recommend that your father get you into therapy, Becky. You may think you were just playing the normal teenage rebellion game but trust me, you got incredibly lucky. You could have been raped or murdered. These men you were with, they're killers. You're lucky they left you alone when they ran from that house. Understand?"

I nodded my head. My dad, who was sitting next to me, said, "What's next, Detective?"

He'd been leaning back in his chair but now the detective pushed himself forward and drummed his hands on the top of his steel desk. "Nothing, unless the CPD ever catch the assholes. Cleveland might want to file either a false imprisonment or kidnapping charge against them, but I doubt that'll ever happen. Chances of them being caught are slim since apparently this gang moves members between cities after raids or busts. They're probably in Detroit by now, or Chicago.

"As for what's on our end, though, Mr. Sullivan," he went on, "this missing persons file is closed in about as happy a way as I ever see. Your daughter is damned lucky her file didn't end like my last runaway's did a year ago. Coast Guard found that kid's body floating in Lake Erie a month after he disappeared." He gave me a very serious stare after that and I shuddered.

The social worker gave my dad a business card after the interview and I almost wondered if he meant it when he promised the woman he'd get me into therapy. He brought me out to the parking lot and we spent an awkward drive home in complete silence.

I spent most of the rest of that day in my bedroom, except to shower and use the bathroom. I read magazines and mostly tried to avoid bursting into tears. That happened quite a bit, though, throughout the course of the day. One moment I'd be reading an article from one of my teen-girl magazines, the next I was crying uncontrollably.

As the evening came on I wondered if I was supposed to make dinner. Dressing in an over-sized sweater and jeans I nervously went downstairs and was surprised to find my dad cooking. He wasn't a bad cook but he hated doing it. I stood dumbly at the entry to the kitchen for a moment before I saw Jason sitting at the kitchen table. He was the last person I wanted to see so I went back to my room.

Half an hour later there was a soft knock at my door. "Becky?" my father said. "Dinner's ready."

The racist cops had barely fed me during my imprisonment and the smells coming from downstairs were irresistible. Despite how awkward and nervous I was I couldn't resist my starving stomach. I salivated at the meal. My father had cooked fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. My favorites.

Everyone but my oldest brother, Tyler, was there. He had to work late, I overheard my dad say.

As delicious as the meal was it was easily the most awkward family dinner of my life. Neither Jason nor Ron seemed to know what to talk about and my father avoided making eye contact with me at all costs. I barely said a word except to say, "You're welcome," after being thanked for passing the salt to Ron.

When dinner was finished I started to gather up the plates but my father surprised me again by saying, "No, no, go rest."

I did as I was told without a word but I couldn't stop wondering what was going through my father's head. Did he feel guilty? Was he trying to appease me, afraid I'd tell someone about what he'd done? Or was he being a legitimate, caring father who knew his daughter had gone through a lot and needed rest? I just didn't know.

The next day was a Wednesday and I returned to school after having missed seven whole days of classes. Again I was greeted with a feeling of awkwardness. Everyone avoided me even more than usual and my teachers treated me with kids' gloves. Everyone had known I'd been reported missing a week earlier and I was sure that most of them now knew the official story of what had happened. My brothers had undoubtedly told their friends, some of whom were related to the girls I went to school with. They were all probably convinced that I had tried to be some inner-city gang's whore and had failed and was lucky to be alive. If they only knew the half of it, I kept thinking...

By sixth hour I had a stack of make-up homework to do and about a dozen tests I had to study for. And that's what I did for the next few days. Study, read, and write. In a way the massive amount of homework I had to do to make up for being gone was actually enjoyable. It was therapeutic to get lost in English papers and religious texts. Math and Science became fun challenges. Also, all that extra work gave me an excuse to stay in my bedroom and avoid my family.

I didn't realize it at the time but in the following days and weeks my brain began to block out the memory of my rapes, both those of the racist cops and the one at my father's hands. Only in my sleep did the memories return, but only briefly after awaking from nightmares.

Along with those awful memories, only in sleep did horniness continue to consume me. While awake my delicate psyche worked the magic of suppression and prevented me from growing aroused anymore. Sometimes, though, I'd wake up in the middle of the night with a terrible temptation to touch myself. Somehow I always managed to resist the urge, however, knowing somewhere in the back of my head that doing so would lead to horrible thoughts. Horrible memories. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around two weeks later I barely thought about anything arousing or anything painful at all anymore. My mind had packaged up both bundles of memories and tucked them up safely away. Incredibly, despite what he'd done, my relationship with my dad returned to normal.

Jason was another matter. He started leering at me again when I was in my school uniform within days of my return. I avoided him like the plague and to my immense relief he didn't make good on his threats he'd made the day I'd gone to see Lee to have sex with me whenever he wanted. Still, the sly looks and knowing grins he gave me always made me blush. I continued wearing nothing but baggy shirts and sweaters whenever I wasn't in uniform. I wanted desperately to hide my developing body from his lustful eyes.

That changed on Thanksgiving, though. For a family event like that I would be expected to dress nice. I ended up choosing one of my Sunday church dresses, a pretty red affair with a pattern of yellow flowers on it. It reached down to just above my knees, was sleeveless, and flowed loosely around my body everywhere except my waist. There it hugged me tightly, accentuating my developing shape, and when I looked at my reflection I felt pretty for the first time in ages. That made me feel good and I forgot all about Jason. I ended up wearing my hair up and back with some strategic hairs pulled out to fall loosely around my ears and jawline. Next I dusted off my rarely used makeup kit and used some eyeliner, dark pink lipstick, and just a touch a rouge. I even put on some earrings that were only for special occasions. Those had belonged to my mother. When I was finished I really looked young, fresh, and sexy, I thought.

But not slutty. I wouldn't have dared dressing like a tramp to my grandfather's house. Instead I looked like beautiful little lady, I thought. All my bruises were fully healed and I looked as young, fresh, and healthy as ever. I hadn't felt so good in a long time as I stared at my reflection, feeling girly and innocent and carefree.

Thanksgiving at my grandfather's, my dad's father and my sole-remaining grandparent, was always a pretty large affair. Aunts and uncles, cousins, and in-laws all gathered at the old man's museum-like cabin on the lake. We ate a large, traditional dinner and I found myself having a good time. No one asked anything about my ordeal and I never brought it up or even thought about it. I spent most of my time with a cousin who was a year older than me and loved to gossip about boys at her school. We joked and played cards with other relatives and the day went by in a flash.

Back at home the next day everything felt truly back to normal. It was as though the annual trip to Grandpa's had given my brain enough strength to officially wipe out all the terrible memories it held. I even wore another pretty outfit, too: a mid-thigh length light-green skirt with a matching strapless top. It had the potential to look sexy but had more of a "modern teenage girl" aura to it, something stylish and fitting.

In the early afternoon my brothers went out to see some new comic book movie and I went downstairs to the basement to finish some laundry. I'd decided I liked the dress I'd worn the day before so much that I wanted it clean and ready again for church the upcoming Sunday. I took it out of the dryer then walked over to the ironing board. I hummed a happy, tuneless melody as I waited for the iron to heat up. I was so lost in my own little world that I didn't hear my father approach from the stairs.

"Oh, you're ironing?" he asked.

I jumped, startled by the sound of his voice. I looked over my shoulder at him and saw that he was holding a wrinkled men's dress shirt. Just then I remembered he was going to a funeral the following day. None of the rest of us had to go because we didn't know the guy, an old Reservist buddy of my dad's who'd been killed in some kind of boating accident. "Sorry, yeah, I'm just waiting for the iron to heat up," I said. Remembering that he was clueless about such things I added, "If you want, toss the shirt over there and I'll do it for you after I finish my dress."

He nodded and took a step toward me. He got close enough to look over my shoulder and see the dress laying out on the board. "Ah. The one you wore yesterday, right?"

"Yeah," I smiled at him. I looked back at the iron and placed the back of my hand to it. Still needed a little more time, I thought. I looked back at my dress and drummed my fingers on the ironing board.

Nervousness started to settle in when I realized my dad was still standing uncomfortably close behind me. He'd already dropped his shirt where I'd told him to so why hadn't he left? To break the sudden nervous tension I said, "For the funeral, right? The shirt?"

Instead of answering me he got even closer. I felt his hand on my developing right hip just as he whispered, "You looked really pretty in that dress yesterday, hon."

At first I froze. Literally my whole body just turned into a statue. I felt his hand slide down the length of my skirt, then back up under it against my cool soft thigh. His touch was delicate and sensual, like a lover's, and it sent goosebumps across my skin. He was reaching around to my crotch before I finally snapped out of my paralyzing fright.

"Daddy!" I squealed, pushing away his hand. "Stop!" I turned around with the motion of my hand and faced him. I started to back away to the end of the ironing board, fear radiating throughout my young body.

His reaction truly surprised me. At first the expression on his face was one of confusion, the look of a spurned lover who didn't understand why he was being rejected. Then he eyed my tight teen body up and down and his expression changed into one of anger. He hissed, "Don't act like this, we both know what you are."

"Daddy!" I whined, tears now forming in my eyes. He grabbed me by my waist and the sudden force pushed me back into the ironing board. I heard the iron clatter to the ground as he roughly pulled up on my tight, sleeveless top. I struggled against him but he pushed me back into the board which held firm, now, against the basement wall. The metal board dug painfully into my back as he yanked the shirt up over my head. I pushed against him in a blind panic, horrified that he would do this. Flashbacks to the first rape exploded in my head. They were memories I had buried deep and their sudden return shocked me. I shrieked, wailed, and pushed at him with all my might. He ignored my feeble attempts to escape and gripped both my wrists in one hand and snapped my arms up above my head to finish pulling off the shirt.

Somehow in the confusion of all this I fell, spun, and dropped to my knees, now topless. I hadn't bothered wearing a bra since I hadn't planned on going out and my brothers would be gone most of the day. Now I used one arm to cover my bare breasts and the other to help me crawl away from my dad, weeping as I did.

I didn't make it far. He grabbed me around my waist and pulled roughly at my skirt. At first it didn't budge but then he found the zipper on the back and pulled it down and the skirt came off along with my panties. I blubbered, "Stop it, leave me alone! Leave me alone, please!"

He pulled me up from the floor and spun me around to face him. He looked out of control. There was a wild rage and lust in his eyes as he violently tore my arm away from my tits. He stared at them then cupped one in his free hand. He hadn't touched me there since I was in kindergarten and he was still giving me baths. The thought made me blubber with shame.

His tone of voice was one of utter contempt when he said, "You try to dress like a pretty little lady but we both know you're a fucking whore! You can't tell me you didn't like it last time and you know you want it again. Come 'ere."

He dragged my sobbing, trembling body over to a saw-horse that had been set up years before for God knew what purpose. It came up to just around my waist and he roughly bent me over it and used his feet to kick mine apart as he held my hands together behind my back with one hand. With the other, I realized in horror, he was unzipping his pants.

Memories of the last time he'd raped me returned again in a horrible flash. They seared into my head in a way that suggested they would never leave again, not after this. Struggle and plead as I might, though, my dad wasn't going to listen. It was just like the last time: he was completely quiet as he pressed the head of his cock against my cunt. I was dry but he didn't let that stop him. I felt him spit down on me, down at the crack of my ass. Then his cock was there and for a terrifying moment I wondered which hole he planned on drilling. There was no sense of relief, though, when he returned his now spit-slick monster against my pussy.