You think I don’t know, or don’t see what’s going on, don’t you honey? You think I’ve not noticed or understood the things you are hiding. You thought a winning smile, a tight skirt, willing slutty eyes, and a top that shows off those big tits could distract me from what is so obvious about you. You are fucking broken in the most perfect of ways, and you’ve been broken a long time.

The sad thing is, you think you need to hide it. You think I’ll be repulsed and reject you. And you’d probably be right with other men. Who in their right minds would want a scarred little doll like you who they need to piece together again? That’s what you ask yourself isn’t it my love?

You think I haven’t noticed you hiding your arms and wrists from me honey? You think I haven’t seen the cute little white scars poking out from under when you reached across the table for the pepper? Do you think I would judge you for how you got them? Do you have them anywhere else darling? Do you know how sexy they would be on your inner thigh, how excited Daddy will get kissing them and stroking them when he uses his tongue on you?

I know there’s a story to how they got there honey, I’m not silly. I know it’s not a pretty story, unlike those beautiful eyes of yours. You and I have both been through the dark night of the soul. We have done things we aren’t proud of, have secrets we are reluctant to share, sought things that oughtn’t be sought, longed for things that no good person could long for. Maybe we were thinking we would never get out from under. How dark it is before the dawn! And now we’ve found each other, to kiss those scars, and accept those tenderest wounds.

I’m not going to judge. I already know from the look in your eyes what your dad, or uncle, or teacher, or priest did to you when you were young; too young to understand. I know you thought it was your fault at the time, and I know how you blamed yourself when you sexualised it in your teenage years and beyond. When you looked for older men to do disgusting things to you. When you found me, and our eyes met, and we both instantly found a détente of boundaryless, incestuous understanding. And yet you still try to hide it – you are still captivated and enthralled by the shame that binds you.

It's okay darling, I’ll let you tell me all about it, encourage you to. To relive your experiences with me thrusting balls-deep inside you, slowly fucking your pathetic little body as it gets wetter and wetter disclosing and enjoying the things they did to you. Admitting how you came to look forward to them, value them, play with yourself imagining them. How you ended up craving those moments of feeling valued and attended-to by a man. Feeling how hard I’m getting, and hard you’re cumming, when you’re telling it all. Your deepest fucking shames becoming your most beautiful sexual assets.

And where do you imagine I think you are going between courses honey? Sure, maybe you need to pee a lot. But the little spots on your cheeks and around your eyes, the infirmity of your teeth, the water you drink right after, how irregular your periods are. You really think I’m blind, or stupid, or don’t care? You think I don’t know those two little fingers are making room for the next course at the expense of the last one?

Daddy’s not going to reject you kitten. It’s good that your gag reflex is non-existent, it lets me do what I need and like with your throat. The more of your brokenness I see, the more I know that it can fit into mine, and make us both whole again when we share the things we do together. And besides, if you weren’t so fucked, how could you accept what I do to you even when you say no? How could that make you love me more, not less? How could you become so devoted to the pain I cause you, so attached to the secrets we keep, so comfortable and accepting of the bondage I keep you in?

Can I tell you the funny thing darling? What you will learn? That there is nothing more wholesome, healing, and spiritual than this. The force, the lack of choice, the beating, the tracking of your cycles and impregnation. The manipulation of your mind and ownership of your body. The total self-giving of me ignoring your safeword, and you wanting me to ignore it. The complete love and acceptance we will find in being known and knowing in the way only the truly fucked-up can. The communion we will discover in having seen each other’s darkest places, kept each other’s worst secrets, and accepted each other’s dirtiest sins and desires.

You will become a channel of my peace, and I of yours. After all, it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Love is not a victory march kitten, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah. Open up. Let Daddy show you.