Daddy's Little Whore
Daddy’s Little Whore – Part 35

KEIRA’s POV

I followed Papa home as it was too late to head back to my apartment. It was already dark when he drove us home. Other than a few passing comments about good weather, Papa did not say much, so I figured it was time to bring up the thing that had been eating at me.

Giving him a passing glance from the passenger’s seat, I went for it. “I noticed you took out mom’s stuff the last time I came home.”

I did not think it was going to affect me the way it did when I no longer saw her stuff in the house. They always made me feel like she was still there with us. But now that he had taken them out, I was forced to accept the hard truth.

He was silent for a while, and I did not care about feeling like an a*****e for pushing it, but I did anyway. “Why did you not even ask me about taking them out?”

“You spend the most time at your apartment in school and you are hardly ever home, Keira. I did not think you would care much.”

I folded my arms across my chest, frowning at him in the driver’s seat. “I just feel you are moving on too fast.”

“Too fast?” Papa repeated with a scoff. “It has been eight years, Keira. What do you mean that is too fast?”

“I know I have not gotten over it.” Emotion was thick in my voice and I did not like how whiny I sounded. I especially did not like the look of pity Papa threw my way.

This time, Papa sighed. He was quiet for a few seconds, almost as if he was gathering his thoughts. “If you believe in the slightest bit that I do not think about your mom and brother, then you are wrong. I think about them every single day. I try to keep myself busy to stop me from thinking about them, and that is how I came about the golf course club. Believe me, I have not felt this alive in years.”

I bit down on my l*p and stared out the window. I was jealous. I wanted to feel at peace the way he did, which was impossible because I was more damaged than he was.

“How do I feel ‘alive’?” I asked, my voice lower than usual. He might have the answers I had been searching for. Something that would make me feel in control of my life again.

He tilted his head as a shard of someone’s car light hazed his vision. “It is not that hard. Find something you love doing and stick to it.”

I loved nothing in this world more than s*x to the point where I got an unhealthy amount of it. And that landed me in s*x therapy. So no, Papa’s advice did not apply to me. I was broken beyond repair. His advice felt too out of reach. How did I end up this way?

“What if I can’t replace something I love doing?” I asked again. “What if what I love doing is the one thing making me worse?”

Papa was concerned for me. I could feel it. But that was not enough. “Have you considered seeing a therapist?”

Yes, the one thing everyone thought was the solution to all my problems. Unfortunately, it was not. It even compounded it.

I fidgeted with the hem of my dress. “I am currently seeing one.”

He took his eyes off the road for a millisecond to spare me a quick glance. “Really? Since when?”

“Three weeks now.”

“That is great, Keira. It is good news. I am proud you are working on your mental health.”

I could not tell him it was s*x therapy and not exactly a mental health related issue, or that my s*x therapist was none other than Clint Homer, or that we were currently f*****g. That required a lot of explanation I was not ready to delve into as he would have so many questions.

“Thanks, Papa,” I gave him a weak smile. We engaged in a few more small talks that I was not really interested in. Papa took the hint and left me to stare out the window in silence.

We arrived at the house and I got off immediately Papa killed the engines. I left Natasha a text saying I would not be returning to the apartment tonight until the next day. She did not seem to mind spending yet another night alone.

The house felt emptier now with mom’s picture frame no longer there. I scanned the whole space with my eyes, trying to get used to the new feeling. It was foreign to me.

Behind me, Papa closed the door and placed his hand on my shoulders, watching me stare at the space where her picture used to be hung. “I am always here if you ever need me.”

He went up to his room and I was only left with the gut wrenching feeling that it was a lie. He was not always going to be there for me. We had lives different from each other, too hard to fit me into his. Or his into mine. Because unlike me, he was ‘alive’ as he put it. And me? I could hardly get my shit together.

I held my head up, praying gravity would take charge and pull the tears back into my head before they had a chance to fall.

I had been holding them back on the ride all the way home. I had been holding them back when I got into that conversation with Papa so he would not see how broken I was.

The difference this time, however, was that I had been in full view of Papa who would have been worried about me crying.

Pain hit raw and harder now that I was alone, wrapped me in the concealing darkness of my room, away from my dad’s prying eyes. I wished my own tears not fall. I desperately did not want to cry.

My throat was scratchy and I dry heaved, suppressing the shudders that came both from the cold in my room and the ache in my chest. I snuggled into a corner and slid down to the floor the same time I let the tears I had been holding back slide down my cheeks.

The tears pooled in my eyes as they just kept coming without hindrance. Maybe I would never get over what had happened and just keep repeating this dreaded endless cycle of going into a mental relapse, feeling like s*x would make things better, and actually believing it would.

It would never end. I might as well accept it and stop trying to fight it.

Shaking any thoughts that would have my eyes pooling again, I pushed myself off the floor and made my way into the bathroom, taking my clothes off.

In the mirror opposite me in the bathroom, I stood naked, running a hand below my eyes to wipe off the mascara I had smeared from crying.

My hands went to my chest next, gliding over my breasts down to my stomach. The way Clint’s skillful fingers always did.

My thoughts raced back to earlier tonight at the golf for some reason. It could be some sort of distraction to deny my brain of previous pain. I could not stop thinking about the warm feel of Clint’s chest and the outline of his d**k. And like the little slut that I was, I was ready to ravish him right there on the pitch for everyone to see. Taint my marks on him.

The things I wanted to do to that man were numerous.

I imagined him touching me while I was in the shower, my hands gliding down my wet body until they settled between my legs. A small gasp escaped my lips when I found my clit. “Oh f**k yes.” Then I started off the same way he did whenever he touched me. Slow and sensuous, building up the heat until my gasps became louder.

Faster and faster my fingers rubbed at my drenched, sweet spot.

“Yes yes yes. Yes, Clint. Just like that.” His beautiful face continued to occupy my thoughts as I m****d loudly, chanting his name like a prayer, and the last of my restraint fell apart.

Masturbating did not feel the same without him touching me himself. He had completely wrecked me. I needed him like I needed my next breath.

I did not have to be told I was completely screwed.