I doubt she knows how my own words can become little daggers in my heart.

As the I hear the water splash about in the other room, the echoes on tile, the faux innocence at its apex, I consider which weapon I should use.

“Wash up all you like, you’ll still be a dirty little whore when you get out of the tub,” I say as I stand at the door of the bathroom.

She covers her breasts (barely) and bites her pouting bottom lip and I see the drug of humiliation slipping into her veins, as her eyes unfocus and her hips move under the bubbles.

The complexity of it all, the alchemy of power and play. It hurts to shame my little girl, even as I remember her explaining how it turns her on more than anything else.

“I don’t know why I buy you pretty dresses,” I explain as she sits on the bed in a perfect white towel.

“When all you are is a little hole for me to fuck,” I say with my back to her.

I can hear her swallow and make the tiniest whimper as I realize my cock has become as hard as my voice.

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