All characters in this story are over the age of 18.
All events/persons/places in this story are fictional.
The author does not condone abusive behaviors towards minors or children. Child abuse is not okay.
The voice echoed down the hallway and permeated through the air like the scent of smoke, alerting the young girl who was being called. Her spine tensed and her head snapped up as she heard the voice. An immediate rush of adrenaline entered her blood stream, and she heard her heart pounding away in her ears as she turned her attention away from her homework and towards her bedroom door.
The voice came again, louder, harsher, with heavy footsteps accompanying it up the stairs. The girl's eyes quickly darted around her room, landing on objects of her disobedience: a plate covered in crumbs, her unmade bed, the Harry Potter book on her shelf, the eyeliner and nail polish that sat atop her dresser. She leapt from her chair and began throwing things in her closet or drawers or backpack, anywhere they could be hidden. As she was finally straightening her blankets her door swung open, smacking into the wall with a loud bang. She jumped a little and hastily turned towards the doorway, eyes down, hands nervously at her sides, and toes curled. She couldn't stop her jaw from trembling.
Her father stood in her doorway, silent, glaring at his daughter's motionless form. Hilary could hear his breath growling through his nostrils, could hear tension in his muscles, leaking the scent of power. His dark eyes stared at her, narrow and raw with wrath.
"Come downstairs." One sentence, and he left. As his footsteps padded down the stair way, Hilary looked up. A coldness dripped down her body, her blood pulling back from her skin as she paled. He hadn't said anything about her half made bed or the slightly ajar closet door. That meant something was wrong. Something was really, really, very badly wrong.
"NOW!" The single word crashed along the walls, and Hilary shook as she immediately ran down the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, she looked around for her father, meekly making her way into the kitchen and adjoined living room. She found him standing next to the only computer in the house that sat on the small desk in the corner beside the television. His back was to the monitor which displayed a single open folder. Hilary kept her eyes glued to the computer screen as she approached her father.
"Explain this to me," her father said, his voice doused in vinegar. As his daughter got close enough to read the small text on the monitor her eyes widened and she stopped, unable to move her feet. The blue bar at the top of the folder read, 'Hamlet Essay' and the address bar clearly showed that it was a subfolder buried within C:/Users/Hilary/My Documents/School/Senior Year/Lit. Arts/Second Semester/Projects/Hamlet. Yet the folder held no documents entitled, 'outline' or, 'rough draft' or, 'Final Paper', actually the folder didn't have any Word documents inside of it at all. Instead, the folder was filled with music files. Hilary's eyes ran across the mp3 titles and her abdomen clenched as her stomach heaved.
"What the fuck is this?" her father spat. His breathing had deepened into a panting rage, his hands were in fists. He jabbed a finger towards the screen. "What the fuck is this?!"
"It's just... my stuff," Hilary mumbled, mouth dry, eyes darting around the room; she dared not make eye-contact with her father.
"Your what? Your stuff?" His voice was like a dagger, small and slick but hard and dangerous. "Where the fuck did you get this stuff?"
Hilary's lungs started working faster.
"M-my friend gave it to me," she lied.
Well, you are deleting it all right now. You didn't fucking pay for it. And I'm sure she didn't fucking pay for it either. You will not listen to that shit in this house," he stood back, giving Hilary a path to the computer chair. She hesitantly shuffled towards it and pulled it back.
"And you are never to spend time with Tammy again."
Hilary froze and shot a look at her father, her horrified eyes meeting his for the first time that evening.
"No!" she pleaded.
"I will not have you associate with a criminal!" he scolded.
"Tammy's not a criminal! She didn't do anything wrong."
"Bullshit. I'm not going to let your whore of a friend turn you into a fucking little thief. I will house a fucking thief." His eyes were twitching and his lip was curling up in an evil sneer.
Tears welled up in Hilary's eyes, building up before cascading over the edge and spotting her white cheeks.
"I'm not a thief," she sobbed.
"You didn't pay for this music. You're a little stealer. You steal things that aren't yours. You don't work for what you take. You're a little fucking criminal and I will not have it."
"I'm not a thief..." Hilary seemed to crumple, standing there, arms held in, hands clenched over her chest, hunched over as if she was trying to hide herself from her father. The man scoffed in disgust at the sight of his weeping puddle of a daughter and took a stride to the computer.
"I'll get rid of it myself, then. Just go upstairs and finish your homework. You're not getting any dinner tonight. And you are never to talk to Tammy again."
"B-but... why?" Hilary sobbed at her father, eyes pleading with him.
"Because she's infesting my house with her vulgarity, and I will not let her music taint my home or my daughter."
"B-but," Hilary choked. Her father glared at her, his nostril's flaring.
"Go to your room."
"But... she didn't do anything." Hilary's eyes returned to skittishly running along the floor. Her father paused and stared at her.
"You said she did," he accused quietly after a moment. "How did it get there if she didn't give it to you?" Hilary tried to get smaller. Her father took a step towards her.
"How did it get there, Hilary?"
Hilary shook her head. Her father took another step.
"How did it get there?" he repeated. He was towering over her when she finally opened her mouth and whispered, "It was me."
The slap cracked in the air like a lightning strike, and Hilary fell to the floor, shrieking and holding her face.
"You little bitch." Her father grabbed her by her upper arm, hoisting her up as she sobbed and cried, and threw her towards the small sofa against the wall. "You little fucking cunt." He unbuckled his belt in a swift motion, and it slithered from around his waist like a black leather snake, eager to taste human flesh. "Bend over."
"No, dad, please," Hilary bawled, hiding her behind and crouching in front of the couch.
"I said bend the fuck over!" He held his belt menacingly in his hand. "Bend over that fucking couch or I swear I'll whip you in the fucking face." Hilary moaned and wrapped her arms around herself. Her father grabbed her by the shoulders and flung her around as she screamed at him to stop. Pushing her down over the seat of the sofa, he trapped her under his knee and left hand as he prepared the belt in the other, poising it up above his head, ready to bring it down on her clothed behind.
"Please, please, dad, please stop!"
"You break the rules, you get punished." And he smacked her round little bottom with the biting leather of his belt. Hilary screamed and cried into the sofa cushions as the belt whistled through the air and made contact with her ass. She squirmed, yet clung to the fabric of the couch with her white-knuckled fists.
"No, dad, no, no, no, no, no, NO!"
"Little. Fucking. Cunt." With each word, her father brought the belt down; rhythmic slaps of leather stinging his daughter's butt as she cowered beneath him repeating over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh God, please stop, please, dad, please stop!"
Her father raged and smacked her with the belt even faster, one lash after the other, hitting one juicy cheek with his makeshift whip and then backhanding the other in quick succession. "This is my house. And you obey me."
"Yes, sir," Hilary cried out, her body shaking as the tears ran from her eyes, her ass cheeks stinging with grief.
The whippings became slower, but still just as harsh, Hilary's father's strong arms building up the power on each swing of his belt. After thirty lashes, he stopped and just stood behind his daughter, listening to her sob and apologize.
"Have you learned your fucking lesson?"
He scoffed and threw down his belt. "Who's house is this?"
"And what happens to little girls who don't obey their fathers?"
"They... get punished... sir,"
"That's fucking right." He grabbed Hilary's arm, yanked her up off the couch, and began marching her towards the stairs. Bewildered, her legs barely moving beneath her, Hilary pushed against her father, trying to not climb the steps, trying to get away. Usually after the beating he told her to go to the room. He never had taken her up there himself. Something was wrong.
"I'm not fucking done with you, yet," he growled, pulling her up the steps. Hilary grabbed at the banister, tripping over the steps, and cried, blubbering out words of not wanting any more, of not wanting to go.
"If you didn't want the consequence, you shouldn't have fucking committed the crime," her father shouted at her, forcing her up the rest of the steps. He dragged her to her room by her arm, Hilary on the ground crawling after him, trying to keep up, the carpet scraping her clothed knees, her bottom sore and sensitive. Entering into Hilary's room, her father tossed her towards the bed and rounded on her bare dresser.
"W-what are you doing?" Hilary sniffled from the floor, clumsily standing up, wiping at her face with her arms.
"Giving you the spanking bad little girls like you deserve," he declared, jerking open her dresser drawer. And as he reached in for the wooden hairbrush his daughter used, he caught sight of a clutter of objects hastily dropped into the drawer: little bottles of red nail polish, a tube of lipstick, eyeliner. His eyes widen until they were practically popping out of their sockets and his mouth opened in a fit of rage. He smacked the hairbrush against the lip of the dresser, sending plastic bristles flying and leaving a dent and crack in his wake. Grabbing the vulgar cosmetics with his other hand, Hilary's father threw them at the wall, tubes of make up scattered themselves across the carpet. Hilary flinched at her father's reaction and backed up against the wall. He rounded on her, hairbrush in one hand, the other deformed into some furious claw.
"You fucking whore," he roared. Hilary whimpered and her body shook uncontrollably. He pointed the brush at her across the room.
"Strip," he ordered. Hilary's breath caught her throat and her eyes widened. "NOW!"
She jolted and began fumbling with her sweatshirt, yanking it off of her arms and tossing it in a pile to her side. The button on her pants stubbornly remained clasped, and she ended up forcing down her jeans without even bothering to unzipper them. Grasping her shirt by bottom, she pulled it up over her head, mussing up her long brown hair, and dropped the inside-out shirt on the top of the pile of clothes with trembling hands.
Her father's rage grew even more at the sight of her undergarments. He shook his head and took two strides across the room to her, backing her up against the bed. Tossing the brush on the mattress, Hilary's father grabbed at his daughter's bra, ripping the lacy red piece of lingerie from her now adult body.
"I did not raise my daughter to be a whore!" And he shoved her down against the bed, her legs flailing. "Only whores wear such filthy, vulgar underwear." He tore her panties down her slim legs, leaving her as a completely naked, sobbing wreck on the bed. Sitting down next to her, he forced his daughter over his lap. She thrashed and wormed her way about, refusing to remain still. He bought the hairbrush down upon her bare flesh, pounding it wherever it landed, fast and hard, over and over and over again as she screamed and shook in his lap.
"I will not house a whore." And he spanked her red, welted ass with the hard brush.
"Please stop," Hilary pleaded.
"Fucking whore." His arm wasn't relenting. "Fucking stupid little fucking whore. Whores like fucking shit up. Whores deserve fucking punishment!"
"Stop, stop, STOP."
"You like dressing up as a fucking slut? Do you let every boy fuck your little pussy?"
"Please, dad, please stop, please, please, please stop, I'm not a whore. Please. I'm sorry."
"You dress up in that lace and see-through shit. You want people to see your body. Whores want people to see their bodies. So now you're showing off your body. You're being used like the fucking slut you are."
"Stop... oh God, please stop..." Hilary sobbed and cried and choked on her own tongue as snot drooled from her nostrils and her hair stuck to her hot wet cheeks.
Finally, her father threw her off of his lap and onto the floor where she curled up, sobbing and hiccuping. He dropped the brush on top of her and walked towards the door way. Stopping by the mess of broken nail polish bottles and leaking makeup tubes, he turned towards his broken, weeping daughter.
"Clean this mess up." And with that he finally left Hilary alone.