Claiming Daddy Ch. 20

She lurched forward, so close I could see every broken capillary on her nose. “I should have used a coat hanger on you,” she said.

When I drove up to my parents’ house, my hands were locked so tight on the wheel I felt every bone in my fingers creak with the effort. The old neighborhood, a splay of identical lawns and driveways, made me want to roll down the window and scream, just to break the symmetry. I didn’t. I parked at the curb, a good twenty feet from the mailbox, and let the engine idle long enough to remind myself that this wasn’t home, hadn’t been for years, even though the shingles and the crooked basketball hoop over the garage never changed.

I killed the ignition and just sat. My breath clouded the inside of the windshield, a gray bloom that faded as quick as it formed. The late afternoon sun was harsh on the glass, hot enough to bleach the color from the world, and the house itself looked even more faded than I remembered. The siding needed a power wash, and the flower beds were a mess of last year’s rot. I gripped the keys tight enough to leave ridges in my palm, counted to ten, and got out.

Every step toward the front door was a deliberate act. I noticed the little things: the way the grass had gone patchy by the walk, the splintered corner of the doormat that had always pissed my mother off. What stopped me dead was the window beside the door. The curtains were drawn, but someone had peeled them back an inch, the gap too high to be an accident. And behind the curtain, barely visible, was the shadow of a chair pushed up against the sill. Classic maneuver. Stake out the window, get an advance look at whoever’s coming to threaten your kingdom.

I didn’t ring the bell. I knocked, three sharp raps, and heard the scramble inside. Steps, the drag of a chair, the snap as someone tried to wrench open the lock. Then silence.

The door swung open, and my mother filled the frame. She looked bad, even for her. Eyes raw and red, the whites streaked pink and yellow, and her hair was a brittle explosion, greasy at the roots, standing up from her scalp in wild arcs. There was a robe, but not the fancy silk one she used to lord over us on weekends; this was a pilled cotton thing with toothpaste stains on the lapels. It looked like she’d been wearing it for a week.

She said nothing. She just stood there, one hand white-knuckled on the knob, the other twisted into the robe’s sash, like she was bracing herself against an earthquake only she could feel. Her mouth worked, once, twice, then closed again.

“Hello to you too,” I said.

Her head jerked, as if I’d thrown something. Something cold filled her eyes. Lips pulled into a tight, thin light of disapproval.

“It’s customary to call before you arrive at someone’s home,” she said.

I didn’t engage. Just let her stare, let her catalog the things she always noticed. My shoes, my hair, the fact that I was wearing my favorite shade of purple even though she’d banned it from her closet ten years ago.

“I texted,” I pointed out. “Twice.”

She sniffed, eyes narrowing, and angled her body so she half-blocked the doorway. I caught a whiff of something beneath the ghost of her perfume: vodka and wet ashtrays, the sourness of a woman who’d spent the last three nights drinking herself inside-out.

“We need to talk,” I told her. “Do you want to do it here where they neighbors can here, or...”

She stepped aside. Barely. I pushed her back with my shoulder as I stepped into the house that had been my personal hell for eighteen years.

“What did you want to tell me? That you’re fucking your father?” Her eyes glared at mine. “Or that you’re sucking his dick?”

I met her gaze, dead-on. “You really are sick and twisted,” I told her. “You ever stop to think what it’s like to have a mother who goes around accusing her own daughter of—” I let the accusation hang, as ugly as she wanted it.

She didn’t blink. “I see things for what they are,” she spat. “I’m not the one creeping around the city, leaving men in pieces wherever I go. I’m not the one who—”

“Please,” I said. “I’m not here for this.”

Her hands balled up into fists, and I wondered if she’d swing. I was ready for it. It wouldn’t be the first time I knocked the hell out of her.

“He’s not yours, you know. No matter what you think you’ve done, no matter what filthy thing you’re planning, you’ll never—” She broke off, the effort leaving her winded. “He’s my husband.”

I looked around, taking in the familiarity of the house. The entryway was unchanged. Dad’s jacket still hung on its hook, the pockets bulged with old receipts and paperbacks. The battered umbrella stand was full of umbrellas, even though it hadn’t rained in weeks. On the wall, every photograph from my childhood was still arranged in a perfect grid. My mother’s face, smile lacquered on, the same in every shot. I wondered how long she’d keep the gallery up after I was gone for good.

“Was your husband,” I corrected her as I walked along the row of fake family pleasure. “I guess you weren’t enough woman to keep him.”

She shuffled after me, slippers thwapping against the laminate, breath coming in short, angry bursts. “You’re not welcome here,” she hissed. “I should call the police.”

“Go ahead,” I shot back. “Tell them your daughter stopped by to visit and ended up getting verbally assaulted by a washed-up housewife.” I reached for the banister, ran my palm over the grooves Dad had carved into it during his one failed attempt at home repair. “Let’s see who they believe.”

Her voice climbed an octave. “You think you’re so smart. So untouchable. You think you can just waltz in and take whatever you want?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” I said, my feet already on the stairs. I stopped at the landing, turned to look her dead in the eyes. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Get what you came for and get out,” she snapped. Turned her back and crossed her arms in front of her. “Don’t ever come back here,” she said, teeth bared. “You’re not my daughter.”

I smiled, slow and venomous. “Good. I’d rather be an orphan than spend one more second as yours.”

I turned, not waiting for her answer, and let the sound of her silence follow me all the way to the top of the stairs. I grabbed a pillowcase from the linen closet and walked into my parents’ room. A room that had seen less love in two decades than in the few days Daddy had been with me. I opened a drawer and stuffed clothes into the pillowcase. Socks. Underwear. Jeans. When it was full, I went back for another and filled that one, too.

She was waiting in the living room when I cam downstairs. I heard her before I saw her, the harsh scrape of her slippers on the tile, the wet snort of breath through her ruined nose. She’d poured herself a drink. Something brown, poured neat, glass trembling as she clutched it in both hands. When I hit the last step, she turned, eyes bright with hate and something else, something almost like hope.

“You think you’re clever,” she said. “Running off with him. Playing at being his savior.” She sneered, lips twisted. “You’re nothing. Nothing but a parasite.”

I didn’t break stride. I set the pillowcases on the floor by the couch, dropped the shoebox on the coffee table, and took the chair across from her. She flinched, like she thought I’d throw the box at her head. I kind of wanted to.

“If you’ve got something to say,” I told her, “say it now. This is the last time we do this.”

She took a gulp from her glass, the liquor sloshing over her hand. “I want you out. Out of this house, out of his life, out of my nightmares.”

“Newsflash,” I said. “You already got what you wanted. I’ve been gone for almost two years. The only reason I ever came back is already living with me now.”

You think you’re so—” She cut herself off, voice cracking on the word. She slammed the glass onto the end table, whiskey slopping onto the cheap wood veneer. “You ruined this family.”

I almost laughed. “This family was a corpse before I ever got to it.”

Her hands knotted in her lap. She picked at her cuticles until one split and started to bleed. “You want to know what I think?” she said. “I think you’ve always wanted to fuck him. Since you were a child. You wanted him for yourself, and now you’ve finally got him, and you want me to just smile and say congratulations. Like you won.”

The accusation should have cut. Instead, it made me calm, cool as glass. “You made it easy,” I told her. “A woman like you? I’d have replaced you by the time I was fifteen if I’d had the choice.” I leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked on hers. “He deserves a better wife. A better lover.”

She made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a retch. “You’re disgusting.”

“Look at yourself,” I said. “You haven’t been sober in a decade. You treat him like a child, then you wonder why he finally ran away from home.”

Mom surged to her feet, the robe gaping open at the chest. “You don’t know what I gave up for you! For him!”

I stood too, careful, moving like I was handling a bomb. “You didn’t give up shit. You lost. That’s all.” I tilted my head, mock sympathy. “He doesn’t even want you in his life anymore. He told me to tell you to stop coming by the apartment. Next time, we’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

She lurched forward, so close I could see every broken capillary on her nose. “I should have used a coat hanger on you,” she said. “I wanted to. Every day since you were born, I wished I had.” Her eyes narrowed. “You ruined my entire life. I fucking hate you. I’ve always hated you.”

I slapped her. Not a little warning tap, not a slow-motion TV slap, but a full-shouldered, open-handed blow that snapped her head to the side and left a raw, red bloom across her cheek. She stumbled, nearly went down. When she looked back, there were tears on her face, but the smile was back too, like I’d just proved her right about everything.

Leaning in, voice low enough it barely qualified as a whisper, I let the truth drip from my lips like venom. “You think your words bother me? I never loved you. And I don’t care enough to hate you. You’re just a phase of my life I intend to forget.” I reached for the coffee table, knocked over one of her precious framed family portraits, and let it clatter face-down on the fake marble. “He’s mine now. Always was. I hope you die lonely, with cobwebs in your pussy.”

She staggered backward, one hand pressed to her burning cheek, the other reaching for the bottle she’d left on the mantle. I turned on my heel, picked up the pillowcases, and walked to the door without looking back.

Behind me, I heard glass breaking, either the picture frame or the whiskey, I couldn’t tell. I smiled. Then I was out in the entryway, sunlight slicing across the hardwood, the smell of dust and rage and finality filling the air.

I paused by the coat rack. Dad’s jacket still there, just like always. I ran my hand over the battered leather, then left it behind. I could get him a new one. New life, new woman, new coat. I reached the threshold and paused, sunlight spilling over my face, blinding after the gloom inside. Turned just enough to let her see I was smiling.

“Don’t ever contact us again,” I said. “Not by phone, not by email, not even a fucking birthday card. You’re done.”

She staggered to the doorway, one hand splayed on the frame for balance, the other gripping her robe closed at the waist. Her voice was shredded, barely more than a growl. “You’re dead to me,” she hissed. “Rot in hell, Jesse.”

I nodded, calm as ever. “After you, Mother.” I stepped onto the porch, felt the heat of the concrete through the soles of my shoes, and closed the door behind me.

The neighborhood was quiet. Too quiet. But I could feel the eyes—old Mrs. Langley next door, her curtain twitching; the Henderson kids gawking from their bikes across the street. I didn’t care. Let them see. Let every one of them watch as the prodigal daughter staged her exit and the Queen of Misery finally lost her crown.

She didn’t follow me outside, but I heard the rattle of the deadbolt as she locked me out for good. I walked to the curb, pillowcases slung over one shoulder, and opened the car. I tossed them into the back seat, then leaned against the roof, just for a second, to feel the cool metal against my burning skin.

Behind me, the front door burst open. She stood on the porch, hair wild, face streaked with tears and snot, and screamed at the top of her lungs, “WHORE! YOU’RE A FUCKING WHORE! YOU FUCK YOUR OWN FATHER!” The echo rolled down the block, bouncing off garages and stop signs and the bored faces of every witness. Two staggering steps brought her into the grass. “GO AHEAD AND SUCK YOUR FATHER’S COCK, YOU SICK SLUT! I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WERE TRASH!”

I didn’t flinch. I just stared at her. I watched her realize, for the first time, that she was the only one yelling, that her private war had become the block’s entertainment. She tried to slam the door, but it caught on the frame and bounced back, an afterthought of failure.

Behind the wheel, both hands tight at ten and two, the steering column warm from the sun, I took a deep breath. My knuckles glowed white, but my breath was steady, no shake in my arms, just a clean, simple fatigue. I let myself watch the house disappear behind me.

“Hi Daddy,” I said as he picked up on the second ring. “I took care of everything. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

“Thank you, Jesse,” he said, relief etched into his words. “I can’t face that woman. I just can’t.”

I turned out of the neighborhood onto the highway feeder. “You don’t have to, Dad. But you owe me.” I laughed, shaking off the vestiges of anger and stress. “Any ideas on how you want to pay me back?”

Dad chuckled. “I can beg to eat your pussy when you get home.”

My body tightened at the thought.

“That’s a good start,” I said. “Tell me more.”

"I want to kneel between your legs," he said, his voice dropping to that rough whisper that made my stomach clench with need. "I want to worship your pussy with my mouth until you're shaking. I want to taste how wet you get when you're in control."

I pressed my thighs together, feeling the familiar ache building between my legs. The afternoon traffic blurred past my windows, but all I could focus on was the sound of his voice, the way it wrapped around those filthy words like a prayer. Phone sex with my father. New and exciting.

"What else?" I demanded, taking the exit toward our apartment. "Tell me what you need from me, Daddy."

A pause. Then: "I need you to use me. However you want. I need to feel like I belong to you completely." His breath hitched. "I've been hard all day, thinking about you coming home. Thinking about what you'd do to me."

My pulse quickened. "Have you touched yourself?"

"No," he said immediately. "I waited. Like you taught me."

"Good boy." The praise made him groan softly through the phone. "I'll be home in three minutes. Be naked and kneeling by the door when I get there."

I hung up before he could respond, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. My hands were steady on the wheel now, all the rage and disgust from my mother's house transmuting into something purer, hungrier. I'd severed the last tie to that toxic world, and now I could focus entirely on what mattered: the man waiting for me at home, ready to surrender everything.

The apartment building came into view, its familiar brick facade like a fortress against everything ugly I'd left behind. I parked and grabbed the pillowcases from the back seat, Dad's meager possessions feeling weightless in my hands. Everything he'd need for his new life with me.

I climbed the stairs two at a time, anticipation building with each step. When I reached our door, I paused, key in hand, savoring the moment. Before me was my father, naked and obedient, waiting to worship me. Behind me was a mother who no longer existed, a past I'd finally burned to ash. I turned the key and stepped inside.

“Beg,” I commanded, already wiggling out of my jeans before the door was closed.

He was exactly where I'd commanded him to be, naked and kneeling by the door, his head bowed in perfect submission. The sight of him there, waiting for me like a trained animal, sent a surge of power through my veins that was better than any drug. His cock was hard, jutting out from his body like an offering, and I could see the tremor in his thighs from holding the position.

"Please," he whispered, not lifting his eyes. "Please let me taste you, Jesse. Let me worship your pussy. I've been thinking about it all day, about how you taste, how you feel on my tongue."

I stepped out of my panties, leaving them in a puddle on the floor. "Look at me," I commanded, and his head snapped up, eyes wide and desperate. "Tell me what you see."

"I see my daughter," he said, voice thick with need. "I see the woman I love more than life itself. The woman who owns me."

"That's right." I stepped closer, close enough that he could smell my arousal, see the wetness glistening between my legs. "And what does that make you?"

"Yours," he breathed. "Completely yours."

I threaded my fingers through his hair, gripping tight enough to make him gasp. "Then prove it. Show me how grateful you are that I saved you from her."

I guided his head between my legs, feeling the heat of his breath against my sensitive skin. When his tongue made first contact, I nearly buckled from the intensity of it. He licked me like a man starved, like my pussy was the only thing keeping him alive. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me steady as he worked his tongue in long, slow strokes that made me see stars.

"That's it," I moaned, grinding against his face. "That's my good boy. Eat your little girl’s pussy. Be a good Daddy."

He groaned against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my core. I could feel his desperation in every movement of his tongue, his need to please me, to prove his devotion. This was what I'd wanted all along - complete surrender, absolute worship. What I’d planned for. Schemed over. Fantasized of.

"You're mine now," I panted, my grip tightening in his hair. "She can't have you back. She can't hurt you anymore. You're safe with me."

His tongue found my clit, circling it with perfect pressure, and I cried out, my body arching against the door. The confrontation with my mother seemed like a distant memory now, washed away by the waves of pleasure my father was giving me. This was my victory, my prize for burning down the old world.

"Don't stop," I commanded, feeling my orgasm building. "Make me come, Daddy. Show me how much you love me."

He obeyed like his life depended on it, his tongue working me with a reverence that made my knees weak. I could feel him trembling beneath me, not from fear but from pure need, the desperate hunger of a man who'd finally found his purpose. Every stroke of his tongue was worship, every moan that vibrated against my clit was a prayer of gratitude.

I looked down at him, at my father kneeling between my legs in our sanctuary, and felt the last chains of my old life snap. The woman who'd raised me was nothing now, less than nothing. A ghost I'd finally exorcised. What mattered was here, now. This man who would do anything for me, who'd chosen me over everything else in his world.

"You're perfect," I gasped, my hips rolling against his mouth. "My perfect Daddy. You know exactly what I need."

His hands slid up my thighs, gripping my ass to pull me closer, deeper into his mouth. I could feel his cock throbbing where it pressed against my shin, hard and leaking, but he made no move to touch himself. All his focus was on me, on giving me pleasure, on proving his devotion with every flick of his tongue.

The orgasm hit me like a lightning strike, sudden and overwhelming. I screamed his name, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed through me. My fingers twisted in his hair, holding him against me as I rode out the storm on his face. He didn't stop, didn't even slow down, just kept licking and sucking until I was sobbing from the intensity.

When I finally pushed him away, he sat back on his heels, his face glistening with my juices, eyes bright with satisfaction. He looked drunk on me, high on the taste of my pleasure.

"Thank you," he whispered, and I could see he meant it with every fiber of his being. "Thank you for letting me love you." A shy smile touched his face. “And for taking care of that…”

I cupped his face in my hands, thumbs brushing over his wet lips. "We're free now," I told him. "She can't touch us anymore. It's just you and me, exactly how it should be."

He nodded, tears mixing with my wetness on his cheeks. "Just us," he agreed. "Forever."

I pulled him to his feet and led him to our bedroom, to the bed that was ours now, in the home that was ours. Behind us, the pillowcases full of his old life sat forgotten by the door. He wouldn't need those reminders of who he used to be. I'd already remade him into everything I needed him to be.