Sometimes I have several playthings at once, sometimes I take a break from screwing with people entirely. But sometimes I’ll stay in one place, I’ll watch one victim’s story from beginning to end.
Often I know what’s going to happen next…but a book can still be reread, even if you know how it ends, and—unlike a book—sometimes my victims surprise me.
Nicki’s wish was kept, as they always are. Over the next week, her father took her in every position imaginable. She woke him up with her mouth and went to sleep with his cock in her ass. She was every inch the devoted slut…and her father didn’t enjoy any of it.
It wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it was certainly a challenge. Honestly, sometimes what I do is an art-form: giving a man a teenage nymphomaniac for his exclusive pleasure, and then ensuring that he didn’t get any pleasure out of it isn’t easy, but I managed.
My favorite part, all things considered, was probably the names he came up with. With no endorphins rushing through his body after every sweaty fuck, Mark had an abundance of adrenaline and nothing constructive to do with it.
And so he spent his energy coming up with more and more descriptive names for his daughter. Slut, whore, bitch, cunt—he used up the obvious ones early. I wish I’d had a tape recorder on me—I think “used-up fuck-rag” was the best one that I wrote down, but “walking, talking, spiritless cumbucket” was another hit.
What’s more, Nicki got off on it. Nothing to do with me, either—some girls like dirty talk, some girls have Daddy issues, and Nicki was in that particular Venn diagram’s intersection.
At the end of the week, it was time for Nicki to return to college, and Mark to return to work, and a life that doesn’t involve fucking his daughter every day.
All good things must come to an end, after all—even if this particular miracle of events gave him no pleasure at all.
Nicki packed, gave her father a farewell blowjob, and as soon as she was out of the house, I let her see me again.
“You!” she said, the hatred radiating off her in waves.
“Me,” I said, and with a press to her forehead, she saw her future. Not all of it, of course—I’m not omnipotent. But she saw the simple truth: every holiday was going to be a repeat of this one. Not the seduction, just the sex—every time she was off college for any amount of time, her father would spend the majority of the time inside her.
I’m a man of simple patterns. One wish before, one wish after. The before wishes are predictable, but they’re nothing compared to the afters—“I wish that I could forget what happened,” “I wish that we never had to see each other again,” blah blah blah. The first is easily solved with a technicality—you can forget what happened, but that doesn’t cover the memories of every time it happens in the future.
And the second? In a word: blindfolds.
But if Nicki’s first wish had surprised me, it was nothing compared to the second. She looked at me for a long, long time. I considered reaching into her mind and seeing what she was thinking about, but I enjoy the challenge of reading faces, and it seemed obvious to me that she was thinking about the last week, thinking about everything she’d been through.
She closed her eyes, and for a second looked so serene that I wondered if she had managed to wipe her own memory of what had happened.
Then Nicki opened her eyes with a steely glint, looked me straight in the eye, and made the strangest wish I’ve ever heard.
“I don’t want to enjoy it either.”