Daddy's Marks Upon My Face

Others have asked for it before
and always, always I tell them no.
But for my father, I am his whore,
and I dare not tell him where he can't go.

My body, he reminds me,
is here to make him smile.
My curves, my skills, my saying yes
are ways to make him pleased.
And even though I burn with shame,
as my clothes are in a pile,
I simply feel that I must comply
when he's so close and I'm on my knees.

He'll start by slowly touching
my perfect pale white face-skin
and with that touch I am told
he wants to mark me again.

I know by now, I know it well,
to close with eyes and breathe with nose,
and once my father has left my mouth,
I should add a bit of tight-lipped grin.
I'd rather have him deep inside
but today, again, he wants to mark my eyes
and lips and chin and skin.

I feel it hit me,
what is warm once hot
I hear his groans, feel my shame,
but stop this I will not.

These moments may be wrong,
they make me unchaste,
but I love my father,
I love my place,
even when nightly meetings end
with Daddy's marks upon my face.