Poppy Ch. 01

Just a quick note: the nonconsenting party in this story doesn't become happy about her situation at any point.

And of course, all characters are 18+ and entirely fictional.

Thank you to Coyote for the much appreciated feedback!

*****

My wife is gone. I guess she finally couldn't take what I am anymore; what I want. She never said the words, but she knew. She also knew that I would give her everything she wanted in the divorce, as long as she left Poppy with me. Turns out, my wife was not that much less fucked up than me in the end - and a week ago she gave her unspoken consent for the unspeakable.

It had been about 10 months before her mother and I had finally called it quits that things had really turned. It had hardly been perfect before then, but I remember the first time I saw that knowing look in her eyes.

I had always done Poppy's hair before she went off to that piss take of a school, costing me nearly as much as my mortgage for a purpose that as far as I could see was little more than pomposity. The lingering process of pigtail plaits usually triumphed: it was nice to have that time together, plus she just looked adorable that way. Apparently, this style didn't seem all that bizarre for a girl her age in that frankly fucking weird school - perhaps its one redeeming quality.

On that morning Poppy was being a bit more of a brat than usual, and when she went to kneel in between my legs as she always did for me to attend to her hair, she decided to be a royal pain in the ass. First off, she faced away from me so she could still watch TV. To be fair, I was half telling the truth when I told her it would be pretty difficult to achieve her – or my – favourite style while she was looking away from me. So she huffs, and tells me quite nonchalantly to just leave her hair down then.

Now, you must understand: nothing about this situation appealed to me. I distinctly recall registering my wife's quite bewildered expression as I firmly pulled Poppy up, spun her around, and asked her who the fuck she thought she was talking to.

In truth, my aggression shocked even me a little, but Poppy (and her mother) looked positively dumbfounded. Her bottom lip began to quiver, and I hurriedly reached my hand up to her face and stroked her pebble soft, rosy cheek.

'I'm sorry beautiful, daddy's just tired'. Oh yeah, another redeeming quality of that place: all the spoilt little bitches still call their fathers 'daddy', so this also appears to have remained delightfully acceptable.

As I saw tears well in her huge, deep brown eyes – I'd always jokingly, yet lovingly tell her they were like saucers – I lingered just momentarily (to appreciate her hence markedly enhanced beauty), before standing and embracing her; holding her head firmly against me and leaning down to kiss her still loose hair. I did as I'd come habitually to do, and inhaled her scent deeply. I was never really sure if the smell of strawberries was owing to her shampoo, or if that was just the way she was – and while the latter seemed the less probable, it was the explanation I favoured.

'Hush baby, I'm sorry. I'm just not quite feeling myself this morning'.

I lie. She's just seen a (tame) glimpse of what I really am.

'Now why don't you sit for daddy, the way he li- so it's easier for me to get those pigtails in, which make you look so, so pretty. Yes sweetheart?'

I can feel her nod, and without a word, she assumes her regular position. The one I like.

I sit back down, and complete our customary, highly agreeable arrangement. 'There now' I soothe, and she offers me a sweet little half smile in return as I begin brushing through her silky, chestnut locks; slender red ribbons in hand, ready and waiting.

I hazard a glance at her mother, who I'm very aware has been staring intently at me the entire time. She doesn't say a word either, but there it was: that almost pained look of realisation (no doubt, various role playing incidents coming abruptly to mind), which would become so familiar to me.

Really, Poppy's not exactly a 'daddy's girl' or any such cliché, but I think either because of my wealth, or perhaps even out of genuine longing to, she's remained close; more attached than I think most girls are with their fathers at her age. This has certainly suited me well. But from then on, every time we'd exercise this morning ritual; every time Poppy sat on my lap; every time I'd sooth my daughter when she was sad; every time I'd tuck her into bed at night, kiss her lips and wish her 'sweet dreams beautiful' – there was her mother, with that fucking look.

So now, there's no more surveillance.

*

'You look... you look stunning Poppy', I manage; attempting frantically to hide the full extent of my appreciation as she twirls in her new outfit before me. It's hardly conventionally 'stunning', but her unintentionally baggy, now apparently 'trendy' ACDC t-shirt, black skinny jeans and converse could not be more perfect on her. She's never heard an ACDC track in her fucking life, I smirk.

She actually looks a lot like her mother did when we met. But her mother at this age was nowhere near as fascinating as I recall; though perhaps that was my fault. Poppy is definitely shorter, and her frame in general is tiny compared to most. She's got it into her head that she's a boyish figure. I don't know about that, but when I urge to her that she's stunning - usually to stem her whining about plastic surgery - I'm not lying.

'Happy birthday beautiful', I smile as I continue to relish in the opportunity for overt admiration.

Her 19th had been a couple of days ago, but this was the night of her joint party with her friend from school. I don't remember her name, but I know that her parents were giving them the house for the night. I'll be honest – I wasn't particularly happy with this arrangement, but I'd surmised it actually rather convenient.

Of course I'd already given her her presents: an ipad, some Louis Vuittons or whatever the fuck they're called (I had my sister buy them on my behalf). £400 for a pair of shoes. Usually I'd be pissed, but there was something about the idea of the spoilt little smile (and excitable hug) I'd get in return which made it seem worthwhile.

So here was her last gift: a bottle of grey goose vodka. She squealed (adorably) in excitement as I handed it to her; no notion that it was more of a tool than anything else.

'Thank you daddy! Am I really allowed?'

I chuckle. 'Well yes baby, you're a big girl now. Just be careful'.

Really – after less than a quarter of it I know she'll be gone. Perfectly gone.

*

She's home. I've been lying on the living room couch, waiting for this since she left 6 hours ago. I haven't slept. I've been thinking, anticipating solidly. She's scratching her key around the lock; clearly utterly wasted. When I hear a thud in the hallway, promptly following the slam of the front door, I can't help but smirk.

I walk into the hallway to see my baby collapsed against the wall. I'm not sure if her eyes are closed, so I turn on the light. As soon as the harsh glare floods the unnecessarily large, non-functional space, I see her body jolt - her eyes bolt open in my direction.

'I'm ss...sorry. Daddy, I... I'm vey – very sorry dad, daddy'.

Adorable.

'Baby, are you a little drunk?' I ask her softly while walking toward her. I crouch down beside her and stroke her hair from her face. She looks at me like she's about to say something, but her words are replaced by a violent wretch. As she throws up onto her front - the rest of her body barely moving – all I can do is try to hold her hair back and soothe her.

'Let's get you cleaned up beautiful'. I can't disguise my quiet laughter as I scoop her into my arms and carry her up the stairs. Her head is rolling about uncontrollably, and I realise that she's passed out.

Christ. Fortune truly smiles upon me tonight.

After gently cleaning her face with a flannel, brushing her teeth, and helping her out of her dirty attire (I suppose you could say, semi-consensually – well, she's out again), I lay her delightfully exposed body gently down onto my bed; rather in a state of disbelief at the numerous levels of perfection I'm currently bearing witness to.

Without her clothes I realise that she's even less curves to speak of than I'd anticipated - but I can assure you, every inch of what little there is of her is fucking breath taking. She looks so clean; shaven smooth other than a neatly trimmed little patch of pubic hair. I'm so proud of my little girl. And that porcelain skin... she almost looks like she might break. I'm fascinated at the way her body probably does conform to her own 'boyish' assessment, and yet it is simultaneously, quite inexplicably elegant.

I don't think I've ever seen breasts quite like them. They scream of youth and vulnerability, but at the same time beg for more, let's say 'mature' attention. Of course, petite - yet their ever so slight protrusion means they're all the more captivating. They seem almost opalescent; forming a beautiful contrast with those adorable pink nipples, slightly stiffened due to the calculated lack of heating.

Yet she looks so peaceful. Oblivious to the fact that she's utterly exposed before me, and moreover, that I'm admiring her as such – anticipating her as such.

Here we go.

I walk over to the drawer, which has long represented a means of exhilaration. Now, as I open the auspicious compartment, my heart rate is telling of the momentous significance this time round. I withdraw the familiar, and yet thrilling four lengths of rope; running them through my fingers, feeling their coarseness and smiling. This is it.

*

She barely stirred as I put her into her bonds. After four hours in fact (I figured this to be just about long enough to ensure she was a little more alert and animated), I found that I couldn't wake her through any of the more conventional means either.

When I squeezed her firmly in between her legs while lingeringly licking her cheek, that got the ball rolling. A subsequent biting down hard onto one of her inviting little nipples, followed by a louder than expected chuckle at her consequent flinch and moan, did the rest. The look of confusion, subsequently laced heavily with terror, was everything I'd hoped. Quite simply, it felt like her eyes alone were dictating the throbbing in my cock.

'Oh my god, what are you doing?!' she manages, as she eventually adjusts to the impossibility of rationalising the situation.

'Hey sleepy head', I smile, ignoring the pointless question.

She squirms violently as I begin to stroke the delicate entrance to her body.

'No, no. Oh my god, why –what are you...' Her voice is stolen by her sobs.

So perfect. So dry. Her crying this way is the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

I flash her a loving smile and without a word, slowly push my middle finger inside of her. Fuck. I expected her to be tight, but this is just... ridiculous. She writhes as high off the bed as her restraints will allow as she squeals.

'Hush now baby, it's okay', I placate softly as I place my free hand flat onto her so familiar, perfect ivory torso, pushing her gently but insistently back down. 'Does that hurt Poppy?' I ask as I move my deliberately coarsened finger (the things I do for love) in and out of her, progressively further each time. I feel that it must; she really isn't succumbing in any respect.

She nods frantically, accompanied by some simply adorable pleading.

'Please daddy, please stop touching me. Let me go. I'm begging you – oh my god, please! Please'.

Her final 'please' is barely a whisper, which trails into defeated weeping. I've done nothing but stare into her eyes; a deliberate, calm smile informing her of the futility of her appeals.

If she could get inside my head – know what it was doing to me – she'd realize that it was only making things worse for her. Making women cry and beg has always been a favourite pass time of mine I suppose you could say, but Poppy is truly unsurpassed in terms of the effect her various displays of displeasure are having on me. Thinking practically however, I fear she'll rip my cock to shreds if I fuck her the way I intend to in her current state.

Keeping my finger inside of her, I begin to gently rub her clit with the pad of my thumb. Ever so gently, round and round.

'Does that feel nice beautiful?'

I'm not entirely sure how much this even can be a case of matter over mind, so to speak, but I'm enjoying the feeling of more of her in any case.

She's shaking her head hysterically. Her sweat and tears have caused several locks of her hair to stick to her face. But - while that's all certainly appreciated - that's all the moisture she's surrendering.

'Come on sweetheart. Be a good girl now and open up that pretty little flower for me'.

She's closed her eyes. Not in the way one might were they attempting to heighten the effects of other stimuli, but in a more concentrated, desperate way. She's frowning and grinding her teeth. Maybe she's trying to imagine she's somewhere else.

Her crying has stemmed into more of a whimper now, laced with the occasional, now rather pitiful 'no' - and it seems that in fact this may be even more of an affecting sound than before.

I can't wait any longer, and the look on her face - the way she opens her eyes as I withdraw my veritably bone-dry finger, suggests that she realizes this. Her panting increases as she begins to wriggle adorably, pulling once more against her restraints. I'm gratified to see that her wrists and ankles are now raw as I stand, pull down my jeans and boxers together, step out of them and hastily retrieve the lube from my bedside drawer. She closes her eyes tightly again, and it's really pissing me off now. I've waited too long to have her – to look into those stunning eyes as she helplessly watches me fuck her - to have them shut, allowing her thoughts to be forced elsewhere with greater ease.

'Oh dear, are your wrists sore?'

She doesn't answer. Truth is, I'm going to untie her. Not her ankles - just her wrists. I want to hold them down myself; squeeze them myself as I take her. But I want to play with her.

'Open your eyes beautiful. Do you want daddy to untie you?'

She nods warily, with a clear sense of hope in her just opened, now wide, sparkling eyes.

'Please daddy. I won't tell, I promise. I promise, please just let me go'.

I'm so appreciative of her naivety. She still thinks there's going to be a happy ending.

'Okay baby, just stay still'.

I climb back onto the bed and position myself in between her legs. She goes crazy again at the sight of my hard cock so close to her. When I gently apply the lube to her defiant little opening, she goes so fucking wild I momentarily ponder the strength of my iron bed frame. But I gently restrain her as before.

'Hey now beautiful, do you want me to untie you or not? Stay still, or it's not going to happen'.

Her perfect little body freezes, and I can't help but smirk.

I lean forward; simultaneously lowering my body closer to hers as I discard the now almost drained bottle to the floor. I deliberately stroke my cock against her artificially moistened, rosy little slit as I do so. She shudders, but she's clearly trying her hardest to obey me and stay still. Too perfect.

I untie her left wrist and she doesn't move. I untie her right and, as I expected, she starts flailing at me; punching, screaming. She doesn't disappoint. I quite easily seize both of her hands and pin them above her head with one of mine.

'Poppy, why do you want to hurt daddy?'

'Because you're hurting me!' she cries, her voice cracked.

I tilt my head to one side. 'Come now baby, have I hurt you a lot?'

She doesn't answer. Just cries harder as I feel her feeble attempts to break free from my grasp.

'If I fucked that pretty little thing between your legs... Do you think that would hurt beautiful?'

More wailing, pleading.

'You can't! I'll do anything... please daddy. Please don't!' (etcetera etcetera)

She's clearly not caught on yet.

'Well let's see shall we sweetheart?' I ask her in mock joviality, relishing in her look of sheer desperation as her pleading gets no (verbal) response.

I can feel her body still, but she's completely tensed up. Utterly terror-stricken; utterly beautiful.

My cock is harder than it has ever been I'm sure, as I position it at the entirely perfect means of access to the one place I've desired to be for so long.

I kiss her gently on her nose. 'Deep breath beautiful'. She tries to obey, but in her state she's clearly finding it difficult to regulate her breathing. The perplexed, horrified look on her face as I playfully wink and smile at her is just precious.

And slowly, surely, I push myself inside of her. As she clenches against me, I realize that it's every bit as exquisite as I had imagined, and her whimpering is only making it better. She screams and moans a series of noes and appeals as I tear lingeringly into her. My perfect little girl.

My entire length is imbedded firmly into her quivering form. I can feel her heart beating out of her chest, and can't help but moan as I squeeze her wrists even tighter. All mine.

I lean down to whisper in her ear:

'I'm going to fuck you very, very hard now, okay beautiful?'

Rhetorical of course.

As I pull back eagerly to register the look on her face, I see that her eyes are shut once more; tears still flowing from their corners. I take my free hand and sternly grasp her cheeks. 'Look at me Poppy!' I snarl. Her big brown eyes open wider than I've ever seen them, and she flinches as my cock twitches. 'Aw, my poor baby', I smirk.

Releasing my grip on her now veritably scarlet cheeks, I shift my weight onto my elbow and stroke her soft, burning face.

'Hush, hush', I whisper; 'brave girl for daddy, yes?'

I kiss her soft, pouty little lips in a way I've done a thousand times before - but only now does she realise that what it's long meant to me is something quite different to what it meant to her. 'There now', I soothe as I brush her long, tear strewn locks from her face.

My twisted comforting works as I'd hoped, and in that moment she looks deep, searchingly into my eyes, and I can feel the pulse rate in her wrists slow just a fraction. She's looking for the man she thought she knew, and when I begin to pull slowly out of her, her expression of naive hope is just fucking delectable.

I seize my opportunity and slam brutally back into her; being met by violent spasm and an almost painfully high pitched squeal.

Again and again I pound her tormented, precious little pussy. Her squealing her now stock phrase, 'daddy, please stop' is pushing me further toward the edge each time, and I am in a state of sheer ecstasy as I sink the fingers of my free hand deep into her soft yet slender thigh, so that I can pull her deeper onto me. I've no doubt it'll leave a few sweet little bruises to admire later.

I can't resist but to reach down and run my finger around the primary bodily object of my torture. She stares in horror as I reveal the glinting red; she looks like she's going to fucking pass out as I insert my stained finger into my mouth and withdraw it clean. Slightly metallic, but utterly delicious – it only serves to further motivate my assault.

I'm so close. She's so pale.

'Daddy's going to come inside you', I manage through clenched teeth. 'Would you like that sweetheart?'

'Daddy, I... I'.

She's arched her body; her head flung back, emitting now silent screams. And moans of some description.

'Ready baby?' I ask her, smirking, as my grip tightens around her wrists. She's now biting her lip to the point that she's drawn blood, and her pelvis is twitching uncontrollably with each thrust. Poor thing.