by Margot Scott
His shoulders tensed. “Want me to stop?”
“No, keep going.” I squeezed my eyes shut.
“You sure?”
I nodded. I wanted this, all of it, the pain as well as the pleasure.
Mason kissed a meandering trail from my ear to my lips. He eased his cock a bit further inside me and then paused, allowing me time to get used to the new sense of fullness. I imagined supple, receptive things: roses blooming, sand slipping through spread fingers, dark-chocolate pudding. I willed myself to remain open, to embrace the anticipation of not knowing what would happen next.
When his pelvis met mine, I knew he was all the way inside me. I felt stretched, plugged, so full I thought I’d burst. Still, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as my friends had said it would. Then again, weeks of fingering and oral sex had no doubt prepared me for the main event.
I felt every inch of his cock sliding in and out, every inch of my pussy expanding and contracting around him. But it wasn’t enough. I needed more pressure on the outside, more direct stimulation of my clit.
I opened my eyes. Mason was watching me, his expression equal parts lust and concern.
“What do you need, baby girl?”
I wetted my kiss-chapped lips.
“My clit,” I said.
He sat up without pulling out. Draping my legs over his thighs, he gripped the backs of my knees and hauled me toward him, burying his cock deeper inside me. I moaned, shaken by the sensation and turned on by the unparalleled view of his toned chest and stomach. He licked the pad of his thumb and then used it to stroke my clit while he fucked me.
I came undone.
“Oh my God,” I stammered. “Oh shit. Oh fuck...”
This was it. Exactly what I needed.
My muscles gripped him tighter. So tight I was sure I’d force him out. But he kept on thrusting, his own string of expletives tangling with mine as he bucked his hips. Fucking me harder. Faster. It hurt a little at first, but then it began to feel wonderful.
I wasn’t used to having something that big inside me while I got off. It was kind of disorienting. He switched from circling my clit to strumming. I cried out as he pounded into me, drifting somewhere between agony and ecstasy and loving every second.
“You feel amazing sweetheart,” he said. “Are you close? Tell me how to make you come baby. I want us to come together.”
The awareness that my father was about to come inside me was enough to coax a second orgasm from my already spent body. Rather than respond, I simply let the sensation take me: deep, throbbing bass notes—deeper than I was used to—coupled with the sense of total fullness.
I opened my mouth, but no sound followed as my pussy clenched him like a fist. Tight and tighter.
My orgasm seemed to go on forever.
“Jesus fuck, baby.” He drove into me, his abdominal muscles flexing with every thrust.
His cock pulsed. He was coming inside me. Not on my breast or my stomach or in my mouth, but in my pussy. Where no other man had ever come before.
This was it. This was everything.
I came again.
A low roar clawed its way up Mason’s throat as he thrust into me one last time. Wetness trickled down from where our bodies met, dampening the sheets beneath my ass. We gazed at one another through love-drunk eyes, both of us sweat-sheened and out of breath. My limbs felt sluggish as I reached out to touch his hands, still clamped to my outer thighs.
The gravity of what we’d just given each other pulled at us until we couldn’t hold ourselves up any longer. He dropped his weight into his elbows, as I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his neck.
His heart pounded against my chest like firm knocks on a door, but I couldn’t have opened myself further if I tried. Besides, he was already inside me. In more ways than one. My heels dug trenches into the backs of his thighs as I clung to him, wanting to keep him there, to make him a permanent part of myself. He cradled my face as his cock softened and then shifted onto his side.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
There were too many emotions and not enough words to describe them, so I settled for, “Different.”
“Good different or not-so-good different?”
“Very good different.” I hardly recognized my own voice, ragged and breathy and sounding impossibly young.
His breath washed over my chest, making my nipples tighten. “I’m glad. I was worried you might feel...”
“Feel what?” I traced his collarbone with my fingertip and fought to keep my eyes open. I needed to stamp this moment into my memory like a block printing, so I would never forget the slip-slide of my inner thighs, or the berry-red shade of his lips.
He closed his eyes. I tugged on his earlobe.
“Feel what, Daddy?”
“I was afraid you might regret it.”
The apprehension in his gaze nearly broke my heart. After everything, he was still afraid I was going to change my mind about him.
I shifted closer to his body, nestling into the angle between his chest and the bed.
“Never,” I said. “It was everything I could’ve hoped for, and so much more.”
“You have no idea how happy that makes me, Jetty.” He kissed me with a passion that belied the sleep in his voice. “I love you so goddamned much. I’d be fucking devastated if you left after all that.”
“I love you, too. And you don’t have to worry because I’m not going anywhere without you.”
His cock stirred against my thigh. Straddling his hips, I rocked my pussy back and forth against his growing erection, coaxing it back to its full hardness. But instead of the usual pussy job I used to give him, I angled his shaft upward and then sank down.
We both gasped, Mason’s fingernails biting into my flesh like blunt teeth.
“Jesus,” he said with a smile, “my little girl’s insatiable.”
I bent to nibble his ear and whispered, “Just like her Daddy.”
Epilogue
Three months later...
This is bullshit!”
My painting teacher, Professor Mendez, massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Please calm yourself, Stefan, or I’m going to have to insist that you leave us.”
Stefan pointed an accusatory finger in the face of the guy seated next to him.
“My painting isn’t derivative,” he shouted. “Your ugly face is derivative. And the rest of you are all a bunch of mindless hack drones who wouldn’t know real art if it took a dump on your chests.”
He grabbed his painting from the easel and hurled it to the linoleum. A few people gasped, others laughed. I rolled my eyes.
“Take a walk Stefan,” Professor Mendez said. “A long walk.”
“Whatever.” He stormed out of the classroom, pausing only to wipe his shoes on his real art and almost falling down in the process.
“There’s one every semester.” Professor Mendez shook her head and then gestured to the next painting, a grayscale portrait of a sleeping couple entwined on a bed. “Now, what do we think of Jett’s piece?”
The seconds piled like sand at the bottom of an hourglass. I’d lost track of the number of times I had started, stopped, and scrapped the painting. I met my new friend Sasha in Ceramics Club my first week at NYU. She and her boyfriend Alister had been good sports about posing for the painting, willing to strip down and cuddle up whenever I needed a visual reference, their enthusiasm waxing and waning in direct correlation to my offers of free burritos.
“It’s intimate,” said a girl with magenta hair, “yet, there’s resistance. You can see the desperation on their faces, like they’re trying to hold onto each other.”
“The way she plays with light and shadow is really effective,” said a wiry guy whose name I could never remember. “It makes the bedding and the people’s skin look three-dimensional.”
“Does anyone recall the term for that?” Professor Mendez scanned the group. No takers. "Chiaroscuro. Modeling in light and dark to make obje
cts appear solid.”
“I think she could’ve done more with the background,” said the first girl. “The walls are totally bare. It feels unfinished.”
“But I think that’s the point,” said another girl with thick-rimmed glasses. “It keeps our focus on the couple.”
Professor Mendez moved on to the next piece, and I let my shoulders relax. I studied my painting a moment longer, noting the tweaks I would’ve made and the things I would’ve taken better care with if only I’d had more time.
It’s done; time to let it go, Mason would say, and he’d be right. The critique was over. In fact, my professor had probably already assigned it a grade.
We finished up with minimal tears shed, after which Professor Mendez wished us all a good weekend and cut us loose.
“Jett,” she called just as I was leaving. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
I hoped this wouldn’t take long. I had an appointment with my therapist scheduled for after class, followed closely by Mason’s art show—his first in over three years.
I joined Professor Mendez in front of my painting and tried not to make it obvious that I was itching to go.
“I told you at the start of the semester that I wasn’t going to go easy on you just because your father is Mason Black,” she said. “But I’m pleased to say, you’ve impressed me all on your own.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Professor.”
“I heard your father has an opening in the East Village tonight. The gallery owner is a friend of mine. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
A little trill of anxiety skittered up my spine. I had no idea what to expect from Mason’s show tonight. He’d insisted on keeping this series a surprise. For all I knew, he was planning to debut the watercolor close-ups of my pussy he’d painted last fall.
That would be awkward.
I hustled the few blocks to my therapist’s office, arriving only a couple of minutes late. Dr. Kelley had my usual cup of green tea waiting for me on the coffee table, beside a fresh box of tissues that I would surely plow through.
It had taken more than a few sessions for me to concede that talking about my shame and anger and disgust was better than trying to bottle it up. At the same time, it took twice as many sessions for Dr. Kelley to accept that my relationship with Mason was both healthy and consensual, if a little—okay, a lot—unconventional.
We ended the appointment early so I could hustle back to my dorm room to get ready for the art show. Although I spent most of my nights with Mason, he insisted I have a private space to crash on campus. It had come in handy more than once, and we even managed to christen the tiny twin bed one afternoon between classes. Fucking on our sides with my back to his front and his hand over my mouth to catch my moans. It didn’t matter how many times my daddy fucked me; his love had a way of making me feel brand new.
Half an hour later, with my hair straightened and lips stained candy-apple red, I squeezed into a white lace dress and a pair of red pumps before heading out.
The gallery, a hip, modern space with walls that didn’t quite reach the vaulted ceilings, was already teeming with people when I arrived. I recognized most of the pieces from Mason’s collection, still life paintings of antique children’s toys and sketches of my body—throat, earlobe, the arch of my foot. Lines clean and crisp, yet impossible to distinguish unless you knew my body as well as he did.
I said hello to Mason’s artist friends, then went to stand with his agent, Michelle.
“You must be really pleased with how this all turned out,” she said.
I nodded. “I was with him when he bought some of those old toys.”
Her brow crimped. “You haven’t seen the main exhibit?”
“There’s another exhibit?”
Michelle smiled and captured my arm. “Come with me.”
She steered me through the crowd toward a wide archway leading to an interior space I hadn’t realized was there.
“This has to be some of his finest and most personal work yet,” she said.
I steeled myself for the reveal.
We waited for the mob to dissipate, then stepped inside the enclosure. The walls were covered in drawings of children.
No, not children. One child. Me.
They were the drawings from my father’s sketchbooks—the ones my mother had returned—blown up, sharpened, splashed with color and arranged with care.
My heart swelled like a balloon.
“They’re remarkable,” said Michelle, squeezing my hand. “He’s titled the series Lost and Found. You can really feel how much he loves you in every piece.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
Suspended from the ceiling were three full-length sketches that had been blown up and elaborated to make them appear three-dimensional. At the center of the room lay another 3D rendering of a very small, sleeping me curled around a stuffed rabbit that was almost as big as I was.
My eyes stung with tears. Mason had given me that rabbit. I was pretty sure my mom still had it somewhere, packed alongside other beloved keepsakes from my childhood. It broke my heart that I couldn’t just call her up to ask for it.
I dabbed my eyes with the napkin Michelle handed me. “Where’s he now?”
“Upstairs being interviewed by a journalist from the New York Times. He should be finishing up soon. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
She squeezed my hand again and then left me to take in the exhibit on my own.
I circled the room slowly, floored by how Mason had succeeded in transforming something my mother had deemed criminal into the most beautiful display of tenderness I’d ever seen.
The crowd around me burst into claps and cheers. I glanced up to find Mason making his way over to me, his gaze never leaving mine, even as people tried to snag his attention. My preferred look for him would always be scruffy and paint-splattered, but damn, the man could rock a suit.
“Sorry, I was upstairs,” he said. “I really wanted to be here when you saw the exhibit.” He pulled me into a hug that prompted someone close to us to whisper, Aww, that must be his daughter.
“That’s all right.” I hugged him tighter. “It’s incredible.”
He pressed a kiss to my ear and whispered, “Not as incredible as you in the flesh.”
I could almost feel his arousal thickening the air around us. My whole body tingled in response. He kept his arm around me as we circled the room, coming to stand at the center, next to a three-dimensional rendering of me as a very young child.
I leaned my head on his shoulder. “I can’t believe Mom thought these were anything less than beautiful.”
He kissed my temple. “You know, I invited your mother to tonight’s show.”
“You did?” I balked.
“She told me to go fuck myself.” He smirked. “I’d say that’s progress, considering she wasn’t even speaking to me a month ago.”
I hadn’t seen or spoken to my mother since the night she came to tell me what a monster Mason was. Dr. Kelley was trying her best to help me work through my resentment toward my mother, but I was a work in progress. I didn’t understand why Mason would want to have her in our lives.
“You know she’d hate all of this almost as much as you hate each other,” I said.
“I don’t hate your mother, Jett.”
“Why not? I would if I were you.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “She gave me the greatest gift a father could ask for. That’s why I can’t hate her, no matter how angry I get when I think about all the years of your life I missed.”
I gazed down at the younger version of me on the floor. Round and sleepy and oblivious to all the pain and confusion that would inevitably follow.
Then again, none of this, what Mason and I had now, would be possible if my mother hadn’t done what she felt was necessary. If he could forgive my mother for driving him away from me, maybe I could find it in myself to forgive her, too.
She would neve
r understand our relationship. Most people wouldn’t. Our love wasn’t clear and crisp like a photograph. It was messy and abstract.
It belonged on a canvas.
“I have some news.” His expression turned grave. “My PI got back to me about Gretchen’s father. He said the bastard ate a bullet shortly after your mom and I took off. Left his fortune to charity.”
The weight of Mason’s words settled over us like dirt being tossed onto a fresh grave. I waited to feel anything besides relief. As far as I was concerned, my mother’s father wasn’t my father. I may have come from him, but I wasn’t him.
He was a monster and he’d been defeated.
“I always wondered why he never came looking for us,” Mason said.
I pressed my palm to his chest. “Does this mean we can stop pretending I’m just your little girl?”
He covered my hand with his own. “You’ll always be my little girl. But I won’t be satisfied until I make you something more.”
Without letting go of my hand, he dropped down on one knee in the middle of the gallery. The crowd around us broke out in gasps and murmurs. Someone asked if this was part of the exhibit.
“Jett, you are the love of my life. I’ve watched you grow from a sweet child into a strong, talented, and beautiful young woman. It would be an honor to spend the rest of my life watching you grow into yourself. Will you marry me?”
My mind could hardly process the meaning of his words. Was he serious?
Shaking myself from my stupor, I met his unwavering gaze. No, this wasn’t a stunt; he meant every last word of it.
“Yes, Daddy,” I said, my voice clear and confident as crystal. “I’ll marry you.”
I watched, mesmerized, as he tore a thin strip of paper off one of the exhibits and wrapped it around my finger.
“We’ll get you a real ring tomorrow.” He winked at me and then stood to take my face between his hands.
Then, he kissed me—a real kiss that made the crowd around us lose their fucking minds.
Mason scooped me up in his arms and carried me out of the main exhibit, nimbly dodging the press through the throngs of confused and scandalized attendees.