A Daughter's Love

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

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*** Author's Note ***

I doubt that many of you will find this story especially erotic, but it is powerful, in the tradition of my taboo-breaking stories like Lauren, The Sacrifice, and The Funeral.

Frankly, as much as I was pleased with those, this one is even better, and has a special place in my heart. Hence the unusual step of a sixth star. I cannot read this without becoming misty and somber; save it for a special occasion.

Frank
The Flogmaster
***

A Daughter's Love

(*****, M/f, Edgy, Semi-cons abuse, edgy)

A daughter recollects on her father's abusive punishments. (Approximately 4,426 words. Originally published 1999-09.)

Spankings were a part of our home from the beginning. My parents were both spanked as children, and determined to raise me with the same values. I wasn't spanked often -- only when necessary -- and I grew up well-behaved and sincere in my efforts to please my Mommy and Daddy. I feared spankings more because of the pain they caused my parents than the pain they caused me.

I remember when I was six I disobeyed and played with one of my mother's precious porcelain figures. I broke it, of course, and she was appropriately furious. Until she saw I'd cut my finger on a sliver of glass, that is. Then she immediately became concerned, rushing me to the bathroom to wash, bandage, and kiss the tiny wound. I was crying constantly, not because of the cut, nor because I knew I'd be spanked for disobedience, but because of the expression on my mother's face when she picked up the fragments. She was so worried and sad and disappointed -- I felt worse than a rat. I cried for days and constantly looked toward my parents for reassurance that they still loved me.

My spanking for the breaking the figure was a mild one from Daddy. Mild from my perspective today, of course. As a six-year-old, it was a three-minute excursion to hell; and three minutes is eternity to a child.

Since my offense was against my mother, it was Daddy who spanked me. They had this rule that if possible, only the one not directly involved could administer the punishment. This was to prevent anger from infecting the discipline. Naturally, being raised mostly by my mother meant that most of my crimes were against her; hence Daddy did most of the spanking.

I didn't mind this as I loved my Daddy beyond reason. But it was horrible to have to sit in the my little chair in the corner, waiting for him to come home, knowing how his cheerful grin would fade when he saw his daughter had misbehaved once again, and he'd have to perform his fatherly duty of taking me across his knee for a sharp dose of the hairbrush.

As I grew older, my spankings were less frequent, but they more than made up for any lacking with increased severity. At ten, Daddy exchanged the hairbrush for a small wooden paddle. Unlike the brush, one swat covered my entire rear -- a couple dozen had me howling like I'd been murdered. I swore after the first time I'd never earn another. I kept that promise for six months, and then I got it twice that summer.

When I turned twelve I began to rebel. My rebellion was a secret one, full of subtleties only I could have noticed. I refused to eat certain foods. I scorned the TV shows Daddy and I used to love. I disobeyed in little ways, like delaying with my chores, purposely forgetting important family events, and slacking in my schoolwork.

I rebelled against my mother the most, doing my best to dress and act the opposite of her. In retrospect I realize this was just a child's way of growing up, of breaking that bond between parent and child. But Mom took it hard. We'd been very close. As her only child, I was her life. She couldn't have more children. The doctors said it was too risky. Something inside her had been damaged when I was born. Instead of resenting me, she poured out the love of a dozen children into one. So when I pushed her away, it hurt her deeply.

I knew my actions hurt my parents, and I didn't like that. But I also didn't like being controlled by them. I didn't want to be just like them -- I wanted to be me. So I stubbornly resisted reform.

I got spanked several times that year, by far the hardest spankings I'd ever gotten. Daddy used the paddle at full speed for five to ten minute bouts. Each time I thought I'd die and swore I'd never earn another. But when it was over and I was lying in bed, my bottom bloated and sore, my stubbornness reasserted itself.

Turning thirteen made the situation worse. I was becoming a woman, my body changing, and I became obsessed with teen fashion magazines and boys. My parents were the antithesis of what I thought life represented. Once, in my secret diary, I wrote that I hated them.

That wasn't the slightest bit true, of course. I loved them very much. Even after a hard paddling I didn't resent my father. Afterward he'd come to my room late at night and sit on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair, and telling me he loved me, regardless of what I had done. He apologized for having to spank me and hoped he wouldn't have to do it again. I wanted to hate him for making my bottom hurt so bad, but I knew it wasn't done out of malice. Inside I knew I deserved it -- deserved even worse -- and eventually I'd embrace him and sob on his lap and tell him how sorry I was.

In the midst of this oxymoronic pubescent world came disaster. I'd missed the bus home from school. Mom said she'd come and get me. She never arrived.

It wasn't the truck driver's fault. His brakes had failed. At the base of the hill a schoolbus was making its slow turn at the four-way stop. Mom sat opposite, waiting for it to pass. The driver swerved to avoid the bus full of children and plowed into Mom's car instead. People said he was a hero. Even Daddy agreed, in a heartbroken reluctant manner.

The accident changed everything. Guilt and confusion consumed me for months. I blamed myself for so much. I hated myself for all the horrible things I'd said and done. I wanted so much to have my mother back, even for just five minutes, to beg her forgiveness and tell her how much I loved her.

My father struggled so hard to be brave for me, but his pain was too obvious. I had taken him and Mom for granted for so long. It had never occurred to me how lost he'd be without her. For the first few months his sister, my Aunt Eleanor, stayed with us. She cooked and kept house and I helped her the best I could. But she had her own family to attend to, and soon it was just Daddy and I.

I thought at first everything was going to be okay. Daddy loved me and we drew strength from each other. We were closer than ever, and I forgot about rebelling and looking cool for the other kids. Every problem I'd encountered in my life seemed insignificant in the light of my mother's death.

But then I realized that Daddy was drinking. He'd stay up late, sitting on the living room sofa in the dark, a bottle in his hand. He wouldn't talk or anything, just sit and stare at nothing. I'd find him there in the morning, slumped over awkwardly, snoring loudly, the bottle on the carpet.

I tried harder to make things better. I fixed the meals and cleaned the house. I did all the grocery shopping and I made sure Daddy paid all the bills on time. He seemed to have lost all motivation for life. He was listless and forlorn. Nothing I did made any impact on him.

For months this was our life. We were shadows of our formal selves. I was a wisp, flittering about and not wanting to disturb anything, lest it break on me. Daddy was barely there. He and I rarely spoke more than necessary. He never talked about Mom, even when I asked him, once. He never cried. He just seemed like a balloon with its air let out. When he looked at me, it was like he didn't see me. His bottles were more company than me.

My fourteenth birthday came and went. I said nothing about it and Daddy didn't notice. It hurt me that he couldn't have remembered, but I hated being angry at him. I was terrified my anger would somehow make him go away too.

I restrained myself for months, though his drinking was getting worse. He started missing work, calling in sick. He'd sit on the sofa and stare at nothing for hours, moving only to drink from his bottle. I grew afraid of what was going to happen. He was killing himself, slowly, but surely. And he didn't seem to care.

One night we had an argument. I hid his liquor and he grew angry when I wouldn't tell him where it was. He slapped me, hard. I stared at him, my face burning, my heart raging with pent-up emotion. Suddenly he broke down and began to cry. He wept like a little boy, and he begged me to forgive him for hitting me. I hugged him and told him it didn't matter, that I just wanted him to be okay.

I thought we'd had a breakthrough, but the next night it was back to the normal routine. He'd bought more alcohol on the way home from work and he was drunk by the time I'd finished the supper dishes. I was so disappointed when I saw him, sitting on the sofa and singing -- half-singing, I should say -- that my rage gave way and I threw the plate I was drying. It smashed against the brick fireplace.

Daddy leapt to his feet, startled sober. His head rocked between me and the shattered plate. "What the hell was that!" he snapped.

I couldn't believe what I'd done. My anger vanished and suddenly I just felt exhausted and alone. I began to cry.

My father lurched over to the fireplace and studied the fragments. "You broke one of our plates," he growled. I didn't say anything. "These were part of our wedding set!"

"I'm sorry," I whispered, to drained to cry any more.

"How dare you!" he roared. "How dare you!"

His heavy hand grabbed my arm before I could react. I was helpless in his iron grip. With his other hand he began removing his belt. "I'll teach you to break the good china!"

I was so astonished I forgot to move. It was like it was happening to someone else. I knew what the belt was for. He'd never used it on me, but he had threatened it a few times, during one of those terrible paddlings, telling me I was growing up and it was almost time for real punishment.

I didn't move while he pushed me over the back of the sofa, and I didn't resist when he lifted my skirt up high on my back. My bottom felt exposed and vulnerable, the thin panties far too small. I think that's when I first began to be afraid.

When the belt cracked across the back of my legs I think I screamed.

"Shut up," snapped my father. "I'll give you something to cry about."

He began to whip me then, hard and fast. He was still drunk, and his aim was off. He wanted to hit my bottom, but I was wiggling frantically -- I couldn't help it -- and he couldn't see straight, so nearly half of the blows caught my legs. The pain was like nothing I'd ever felt. Every stroke burned the surface of my skin and then slowly went deeper. As the beating went on, I could feel the pain sinking deeper and deeper inside of me, until it consumed me and I could feel nothing but the pain.

I was surprised to discover the punishment was over. Daddy was staring at me in horror, the belt fallen on the carpet next to him.

"My God, what have I done--" he moaned. His face had gone ash white and he looked ready to puke. I rolled over quickly, ignoring the screams of my body, and caught him as he started to fall. I eased him to the floor where he sat, stunned, and began to cry.

"Shhhh, it's okay," I said quickly, kissing him on the cheek. "I deserved it."

"No, no," he mumbled. "I'm shouldn't, I shouldn't..." His voice faded as he broke into more sobbing. He was like an unconsolable child.

"It's okay, Daddy, really! I'm fine. You didn't hurt me."

"My little baby, my baby, I love you so much."

"I know, Daddy. I know."

We held each other. I forgot about the pain of my flesh and just let out the pain in my heart. We sobbed in each other's arms for an hour or more. Daddy was a different man when we stopped.

He stood up and grabbed the bottle from the coffee table. I stared at him in disbelief. Surely not more drinking, not after all this?

But he took the bottle into the kitchen and poured it down the sink. "It stops here," he muttered. "It stops now."

I wept for joy and ran to embrace him. I'd forgotten all about the whipping. My old father was back and that was all that mattered. If it took the whipping to bring that out of him, then it had been well worth the cost.

* * * * *

Things were better after that night. Daddy stopped drinking, at least as far as I could tell, and he was happier. He took me to a ball game on Saturday. It was initially awkward, as both of us keenly felt the missing presence of my mother, but soon we got into the game and for the first time in what seemed like forever, life was good.

Dad got more active around the house, helping me with the cooking and cleaning. He was happier with work, and he and I began to do things together. He came and watched me at a school speech competition, and we made a regular date to go out to dinner once a week, like we used to when mother was alive. I felt like I was part of a family again.

It lasted less than a month.

I'll never forget the chill that passed through me when I saw the bottles. It was late and Dad had gone to bed. I finished washing the dishes and took out a load trash, as the garbage truck was scheduled to come by in the morning. I remember being puzzled at the weight of garbage can. It was rarely full, as we tried to recycle whatever we could. Opening the lid was the beginning of nightmare. There was a big black bag on top, but lifting it revealed dozens of empty alcohol bottles.

I felt the world stretch in grotesque shapes and spin around me. This can't be happening, I thought. This isn't real.

At first I tried to rationalize it. They were from earlier, before he'd stopped drinking. He'd simply never tossed them out. But I knew it wasn't true even as I tried to convince myself. Why wouldn't he have put them in the recycling bin? Obviously, he was hiding them from me. And why would he hide them unless he was doing something he knew I didn't approve of?

Daddy was drinking again.

I didn't let on that I knew, but it was soon obvious. I now saw all the little clues I'd been all too happy to ignore. I did everything I could to distract him, cooking him his favorite meals, being bright and perky and happy even when I didn't feel like it. Daddy put on a great act, feigning interest in my school activities, telling me everything was fine at work, and always quick with a healthy-looking smile. He spoke grandly of the future, the great things we'd do together, perhaps a trip to the Grand Canyon in the summer, or maybe we'd go to Hawaii.

It was duing these times I noticed a change in my father. His eyes would gloss over and it was like I wasn't there. When summer came and went and we didn't go anywhere or do anything, I slowly came to the understanding that these dreams of his weren't about the future: they were about the past. He still hadn't let go of my mother. He still longed for her, dreamed of her, and drank to make himself forget.

One day in late summer, something inside me snapped. I hated being around the house and was spending more and more time away. Several nights a week I stayed at my friend Jamie's. One night Jamie and I had a fight. It was a stupid girl-thing, a petty-jealousy thing over a boy we'd ran into earlier in the day at the mall. In truth I was mad at my Dad, not Jamie, but I took it out on her and said some horrible things. Naturally, she came up with some of her own, and I ended up walking out and heading home in the dark.

The house was dark when I came in. I figured my dad was asleep in his room, but instead I tripped over him in the living room. It freaked me out. I didn't know what it was at first, then saw it was a body, recognized my father, and I thought he was dead. I think I screamed.

The body moved, lurching up in drunken stupor, a nearly empty bottle of burbon rolling out of his hand and across the carpet.

"Whatthehellareyoudoinghere?" he mumbled.

I realized he'd thought I wasn't going to be home and had engaged in drinking a bit heavier than usual. He really worked hard trying to keep it a secret from me. It actually was pretty obvious, but in his condition I'm sure he thought I never suspected.

"You're fucking drunk!" I screamed at him. "You bastard!"

I pushed him away, because he was pawing at me, trying to get me to calm down. I was passed calming, passed everything. Rage I hadn't even known I possed flooded out of me. A string of obscenities I'd never uttered in my life poured from my mouth. I began to kick and slap at my dad, cursing him with every fiber of my being.

Now I should point out that I'm 5'3" and skinny, and my father's nearly six feet and stoutly built. Even with him blind drunk I had no chance of doing anything more than infuriating him, which is exactly what I did. There came from him such a growl of rage I nearly looked around for the animal that made it. Then he hit me.

That started the beating. It must have lasted half an hour. I really don't remember much, just that I was terrified, that it hurt so bad I was positive I was going to die, and that somehow I deserved it. After the first few slaps that send my head spinning, he mostly used his belt. He made me strip to my underwear and he didn't much care which parts of my body he struck. He whipped whatever I exposed. I basically just curled up on the couch or the floor and let him flail away until I couldn't take it any more and then I'd shift to a new position, offering him fresh flesh.

When he stopped he was sobbing. He threw the belt down and rushed to the bathroom where I heard him retching again and again. It was a horrible sound. I wondered if he was going to die. Strangely, the thought of my father's death, which had been my greatest fear after Mom died, didn't bother me at that moment. I knew that I was strong and could survive anything, assuming I lived out the night, of course. But I'd just taken the worst beating ever and felt that nothing could hurt me more. Surely I was invincible.

In the bathroom doorway I stood and watched my father vomiting. After several minutes of dry heaves, he finally collapsed on the floor. I took a cup from the counter and filled it with water. I gave it to him and he drank it without a word while I flushed the toilet. The room smelled of decay and death and alcohol.

"I'm sorry," I heard my father say. His voice was raw and hoarse. It was painful to listen to. I shook my head and helped him to his feet.

"It was nothing," I said. "Sleep it off."

I half-carried him to his room where he fell on his bed with a thunk. I took off his shoes and rolled him over. He was asleep.

I left him there and took a long shower, bathing my wounds. They weren't serious, just painful. In a few days I'd be fine.

* * * * *

It became a routine.

After beating me, Dad would be fine for a few weeks. He'd sober up, clean up, be all polite and sweetness to me. It was like he was different man. Then came the bad days. I'd find him staring at one of Mom's pictures, or fondling the afghan she'd knitted, his expression that of the stoned. For a few days he'd be morose, sullen, and bitter. Then I'd see the signs he'd been drinking again: secretive agendas, empty bottles abandoned in strange places (like behind the refrigerator), and hangovers.

That was my cue. I'd wait until just before a weekend, preferably a long one, was approaching, then present him with the excuse. I'd stay out late without calling, get an F on a test, bring home a boy I knew he wouldn't approve of, wear a slutty outfit. It didn't take much to set him off.

Soon he'd appear at my door, long black belt dangling from his right hand. "You need a lesson," he'd say, and he'd turn and go into the living room. It was always at this point I felt the nerves. Never during the beating. Then I felt I had little choice but to take it. But before, when I knew he was waiting for me, all I wanted to do was dash out the front door and find someplace to hide.

But I couldn't abandon my father. He needed me. He needed the release. So I'd grit my teeth and head downstairs. He was always there, waiting, a grim look on his face. I never knew what he was thinking. Did he realize what he was about to do? Afterwards he was always repentant, always swearing he'd never do it again. It was like he was two people, and the two never communicated with each other.

The whippings were always harsh, though the severity varied. Initially he always had me strip to my underwear, but one time my bra came off during a particularly ingenious escape maneuver of mine. He snatched it off the floor and refused to give it back to me, laughing at my distress. He ordered me to put my hands behind me, and when I wouldn't, he lashed me cruelly with the belt. I finally complied, and he whipped my breasts. I'd never heard of such a thing, never imagined that anything could be so painful, but there it was, happening to me.

After that, every beating had me removing my bra for a breast whipping. Then he had me remove my panties. At first it was just so he could mock my nakedness and thrash my ass better, but soon he tried whipping between my legs and was delighted with the agonizing result.

It seemed the more pain I suffered, the heathier my father became. After the fury of the beating, he always reverted to his natural, wonderful self. It was eerie. It was like he couldn't remember what he'd done. The Bad Dad was like a demon released; the Good Dad was an angel sent to care for me.

I didn't try to understand it. What was the point? I'd been trying to understand my mother's death for years and got nowhere with that. Nothing in the world made much sense to me, except that it worked. A whipping every few weeks gave me my father back. That was all that mattered. It was a small price.

Soon the drinking stopped. Dad didn't need it any more. The whippings were enough. In them he could vent his rage at the world, at God, at me, at the Unfairness-Of-It-All. In them he could forget. He could abandon himself to his raw, primal emotions and just let go for a while. It didn't last long, usually between a quarter and a half hour, occasionally longer. But afterwards he was human again.

He always regretted what he did. He always apologized, bathed my welts with his tears, and swore he'd never do it again. Yet I always saw the signs when he needed it, and I was always ready to oblige, to give him the excuse he needed.

* * * * *

He's gone now. It's been three years. It took me two to realize I was free, that I could have a life of my own. For so long I was devoted to him, I never thought of another. Now I've met a man. He understands me, he sympathizes, and when he sees how much I miss my father, he takes the belt to me. He's not as wild and cruel as my father was, but it's painful and fulfilling.

And afterwards, when we couple, it's heavenly. Wrapped up with his body both in and around me, I feel like nothing can ever hurt me again. I think it's at those times I feel the closest to my father. I can't imagine the pain he had inside him, the pain that drove him to do those horrible things. He wasn't a bad person. I loved him very much. I'd endure it all again, a hundred times over, just to see him happy for a few moments. That's a daughter's love.

Peace, Daddy. Sleep in peace.

The End

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