Asking For It.

"Daddy," I said while playing with his fingers while he watched something on his computer, "How many of your fingers do you think will fit inside me?"

He looked at me as if he was expecting me to say exactly that. I am predictable in some ways and he knows me well enough to know I am turned on by his big, strong hands. Some people like big feet, some people like big dicks but me, I like big hands. Big hands that make mine seem tiny and so dainty. Big hands to squeeze my throat so hard. Big hands that stretch out my insides. I love thick, long fingers because of what they do to me. Fingers last much longer than cocks.

"All the way?" He responded kissing me on my forehead, "Three fingers, sweetheart."

"Daddy?" I asked, speaking from my mouth the words that took birth in my cunt, "Will you please put all your fingers inside me?"

It had been one of those days. It's a very specific type of day where all I want is something inside me but not because it's nice to be fucked and I want to feel full. I want something inside me to hurt me and rub me raw, in preparation for being fucked, so that when he does fuck me it's just torture. Even if he's gentle and even if he's considerate, it's still torture because you're fucking an already wrecked cunt. It had been one of those days.

"They won't fit but I can try," he said pulling my legs apart, "Let's start with three, shall we?"

That was more than I bargained for. I'm all about progression. That's the reason why I just cannot have quickies because there is none of that progression that leads to the grand act. I hate it when the show is all about the climax and much, much more when all it is, is the climax. I hate starting at high intensity. I hate the big moment. I hate it in books. I hate it in movies. And I hate it the most when I'm not carefully led up to it. I must be slow-boiled, I'm just that kind of meat. I don't start at three. I start at zero.

But he doesn't always start at zero.

Sometimes he starts at three fingers. I cannot do that. My vagina does not work like that, but of course it does, and did. Three big, long fingers sled forcefully inside me and my knees knocked together as they always do in response to being fucked by anything, a thing that I allegedly *just love*. I worry sometimes that I must really hate something about me to make myself do things I can't quite prove that I like but then I spread my legs and let the horrible things take me.

For three minutes it's hell and then I want hell. It takes three minutes of hellish endurance to develop Stockholm Syndrome. I think I fetishize that and then do it all wrong. It feels like I do it to myself or maybe it would just have me believe that.

The words come out of my mouth though, that much is certain.

Because it was me that said,

"Daddy hurt me more, rip me apart."

He did it, but I said it.

I said,

"Daddy please make me a scream, please make me cry."

He did it, but I asked for it.

I don't know where it comes from but somewhere inside me is a vast ocean of profanity and the horrible things are like a rainstorm, they make it spill over and flood out of my mouth. I ask for it, myself.

*Daddy, please stretch me out with your big, scary hands.*

*Daddy, please hurt all my holes until I wail and beg.*

*Daddy please punish me.*

It doesn't, at all, matter why. These things are bigger than me when they happen; I can only have the semblance of control in retrospect.

In the moment I just ask,

*Daddy please fuck me so hard, until I start to make amends.*

Who the fuck cares who I'm even apologizing to.

Later,

I clutched myself and lay beside him, unable to keep my eyes completely open because of the spasming in my lower abdomen that won't subside. It hurt to relax my body so I lay there tensed up and holding his finger.

"Daddy, it hurts so much," I complained in my most sickly childlike voice, "I can't take it."

He looked at me with an expression of amusement and exasperation.

"You asked for it, my love," he said.

I did.

I know I did.

I just can't figure out why.