her vivid purple hair is still as vibrant as when she first arrived, although I can see some light brown roots growing through.
Her eyes are closed, and her cheeks are wet with fresh tears. When I lightly brush the warm cloth over her swollen parts, she hisses before opening her eyes to glare at me. I don’t speak a word as I gently clean her skin, foolishly hoping that with each pass of the cloth the bruises will vanish along with the filth. Her haunted blue eyes remain fixed on mine, except when she winces at my touch and they reflexively close. I want to ask her name, and the longing to hear something other than pleas fall from her lips causes a familiar, deep, forbidden ache to settle within my stomach.
We continue to stare at each other in silence as the cloth coaxes her nipples into tiny rigid peaks and a puff of air bursts softly from her lips. Heat coils in my belly, and I have to fight down the indecent need that dampens my pussy with desire. After everything they’ve tried to teach me, I’m still as broken as ever. I want to experience every sinful pleasure I’ve always known is wrong. She’s in pain, having been used and discarded like trash. In my father’s eyes, she’s nothing more than a tool to reinforce the lessons I’ve been taught since I was a young girl. Back then, my family loved me instead of feeling only shame and disgust at having a 'filthy dyke' as a daughter and a sister.
I smother the feelings by focusing more intently on my ministrations. Breaking eye contact, I continue to clean her as quickly and clinically as I can. I mustn’t get involved. If they saw the way I hesitated just then, I’d be subjected to another lesson before the day is out, and I don’t think either of us could handle any more torment today.
Besides, my father’s threat still lingers, and if I were to become the vessel as well as the pupil, I’d be forced to suffer far worse than witness the teachings he bestows. There would also no longer be any reason to keep her, and while it would probably be a blessing to her if this all ended, I’m sure they wouldn’t dispose of her quickly. I’ve no doubt in my mind my father would make her watch what’s being done to me as her life slowly came to an end. There would be no reprieve in her final moments. My father is a monster, and I’m certain he’s capable of more cruelty than I could ever imagine.
When my father discovered my secret, I thought he was going to kill me. His shame and anger has bled into every waking moment that’s followed. I’d leave this place if I could, but he’d sooner slaughter his own flesh and blood than let the world know the truth...that he somehow sired a ‘filthy dyke’. His words cut deep, leaving festering wounds on my heart. I never used to be broken; however, his rejection and the subsequent mental torture he’s repeatedly inflicted on my psyche have left me in tatters.
Tucker initially refused to have any part of our father’s attempts to cure me, but after the beating he received along with our father’s threat to kill me, rather than put up with having a lesbian in the family, he became the obedient son. Even now, there are times I can tell his heart isn’t in it, and he’d rather be anywhere else than in the basement with us. However, whether he’s standing on the sidelines or actively participating, he no longer disobeys any of Father’s instructions.
Time and experience have hardened Tucker; he’s no longer the sweet and caring big brother I used to know, although I can still see glimpses of him in his eyes when I’m taking the brunt of our father’s anger. Father seems to believe that if I observe enough ‘normal’ sex, then eventually I’ll begin to want cock instead of pussy, miraculously cured of the disgusting wrongness of my desires. He refuses to acknowledge or understand it’s as much as part of me as the color of my eyes or the fact I love strawberries and detest cherries.
I can’t change who I am, no matter how much I sometimes wish I could in order to end the torment. On one occasion, I tried to lie and told him it was just a phase and I was past