Limits

ecstagesis01:

Daddy thinks it’s cute when I get drunk. He likes how I get flushed and giggly, then sleepy, pliable and teary-eyed, overflowing with emotion and clinging to him with sticky, ungraceful fingers.

Usually he makes me beg for it at least a little, but yesterday when he came home from work, he set a bottle down in front of me and poured a glass. It was white wine, but the color was off, a swampy turquoise tinge around the edges. “I brought you a little treat, since you took it so well last night.”

I flushed. It’s the best when Daddy recognizes how hard I try. The porn I’ve seen of fisting is so sexy, but God, his hand is so big I thought I could feel my tender, wet girl-flesh ripping around it. I only screamed a little bit, but it’s been throbbing and bleeding all day.

“I know it hurt, but you did so well. Go ahead and have a drink, baby.”

I sipped and froze immediately. There was something wrong with it. I recognized the taste from the winter when I was 19 and sad and hanging on by frayed threads (which he knows, of course, because i told him. I tell him everything.) The syrupy menthol chill of NyQuil lurking under the cold, tart wine.

“I said drink. Do I like to repeat myself?”

I drained the glass. He poured a full one. And another. And another.

After the fourth, my skin felt dull and thick. An oily bubble of delirium rose through my esophagus and popped in the back of my head, leaving me hazy and distant. The pressure of the air on my arms was overwhelming, humming insistently. I’m fucked, oh god, I’m gone. I have to get to bed. I pushed myself up off the couch and almost immediately lost my balance.

“You’re not holding your booze well at all tonight, are you, little one? Not such a badass now, huh?” Daddy said, pushing me back into the couch and straddling my chest.

“You put something in it,” I slurred.

“No I didn’t. You just don’t know your limits, do you?”

Daddy smirked. I tried to wriggle out from underneath him, but that wouldn’t be of any use even if I was sober. The movement made me nauseous. I’m struggling to keep my eyes open, this thick, dank layer of dark creeping in from the edges of the room. Daddy starts to unbutton my shirt with one hand and rubs the outside of my aching cunt with the other.

“I can’t,” I gasped, “I can’t, it still hurts so much, I can’t I can’t -”

“Don’t worry,” I’m dimly aware of Daddy pushing up my skirt and shoving two fingers inside me. “Daddy’s going to take care of you.”

The last thing I saw before it all went black is Daddy’s familiar, teeth-baring grin, and his rough hand reaching for the empty wine bottle on the table.