Two Daddies Are Meaner than One.

I keep biting into the rope in my mouth with my incisors, I am not doing it in an attempt to chew through it, in fact, there is no intent to it at all. The binds of the rope are cutting the sides of my mouth a little bit, and the more I bite into it, the harder I seem to pull at them, but I am not thinking about what I am doing at all. It's a compulsion, I cannot stop hurting my lips, some days I poke at them with pins until every little particle lights up in throbbing pain and I still cannot stop. I stare at my hands, cuffed together in my lap, as he drives us down the mountain road. The sun is setting and the road is completely deserted. Earlier in the day I had been lying on my side, lest a good samaritan see me and misconstrue my friendly abduction as one that needs to be brought to the attention of the authorities, but once we made our way into the mountains, they let me sit up.

They are talking to each other, mostly about the music they are playing, but I have no feelings whatsoever about whoever Kendrick Lamar is, so my attention is on the pine trees. I love pine trees, even today, they smell like home to me. When I was a kid, my friends I would practically live in these woods, we gathered as many dried pine leaves as we could and put sheets over the piles to make bouncy little beds for ourselves, after we bathed in the stream, we took little naps on our beds, that may still be the soundest sleep I ever had. We made paths of pine down slopes and slid down them at worrying speeds, I shudder to think of it now, we could have died so easily, i wonder if I will look back at my life twenty years later and say the same about today. We gathered thousands of pine cones and painted them all kinds of colours, forcing our parents to remark at our creativity over and over again until they had to start discarding our creations, one at a time, while we slept, just to make room for us to bring in more. It must be hard to have a child, it feels like it may make me feel guilt to throw away my child's pinecone art, even the hundredth rendition, but at the same time I know how easily things of sentimental value get old when the sentiments are consistently expressed. I don't know if that is a bad thing. I kept the first shoelace daddy put around my ankle for a while, but I have no idea where the ninth one is nor the twentieth. I didn't even try to keep them. That doesn't mean I don't love that daddy keeps putting his shoelaces on me like jewellery, I do, I just cannot keep a hundred of them. Yet it makes me feel bad that I cannot, I feel guilty that I am not more sentimental about things.

I really am not, though. I can extend a lot of story to symbols, but their physical form means very little to me. I can see endless meaning in any of the toys daddy or dadda buy me, but when I hold them in my hand, they mean as much as they would if they were already broken or about to be discarded. It's just as well, they break all my toys eventually. It is just about getting dark as we pull into the narrow path that leads up to the old cottage, they marvel at the sight of it underneath the orange sky, in the lap of the white mountains. They always do that, every time we pull into that street, they stop for a moment, and sigh at the beauty of it. It is beautiful, but I suspect that I am spoilt by beauty, and so I don't have their reactions. I didn't grow up in loud, concrete cities like they did, the lap of these mountains is not a beautiful view to me, it's the last thing I see each night before I fall asleep and before I open my eyes in the morning. They say I don't value it like they do, I argue that they cannot even fathom how I value it; if they lost it they will have lost a vision of beauty, if I lost it I will have lost an entire part of myself, I'd be missing a limb. Not today, though, today they aren't speaking to me at all, and I, with the rope in my mouth, cannot speak even if I were so inclined.

I watch them lean over to one another and kiss, it's tender, daddy puts his hand into dadda's hair and they close their eyes, I would feel invisible, if I weren't so touched by how they are moved by the beauty of my home. They hold hands as they drive into through the open gates. As they stop the car, they seem to immediately involve themselves in a flurry of activities that have nothing to do with me. They take out the bags, turn on the lights, unlock the doors. Each time either one of them returns to the car, I look up at them, begging to be noticed, to be taken out of the back seat, but daddy stares back at me coldly, and dadda pats the side of my head, as if to tell me to quieten the words I am not even able to speak. It feels like a lot of time has passed as daddy finally pulls me out of the car, I am unsteady on my feet. Usually, I leap straight for the swing hanging from the Mango tree but I stand beside the car, waiting to be taken wherever they want. Daddy pushes me to the ground, just outside the pebble-path and kicks me into the dirt, before walking into the house, I wish he would be just a little nicer, but I remember that I asked for this cruelty. I know I crave it, as much as I crave their tenderness.

Dadda is nicer, he comes out of the house and picks me up off the ground. I want to kiss him, but I don't think he will be as nice as that. I stand there, and he puts his big hands on either side of me, dusting my clothes, he slaps them harder than he needs to, it feels nice to be dusted like this.

"Do you want to sit on the swing?" He asks me, looking back over his shoulder.

I nod my head.

He takes me to the swing and sits me on it. From his pocket he retrieves a pair of scissors and begins cutting the rope from my mouth, daddy wouldn't like that, he doesn't like it when we cut the rope. The scissors dig into my face a little, I look up at his face to try and determine whether he is doing it on purpose, but it's hard to tell. It's easier to tell with daddy, but dadda is always confusing me. As he gets the rope off, I realise my jaw feels so incredibly tried, a wave of pain rushes into face, as if it were being held together by a dam made of ropes. I cry out loud, and he pulls my hair.

"Quiet, little girl," he says to me, "Be quiet or daddy will come out and hurt you."

I like it when they use each other to scare me.

He uncuffs my wrists and fastens them to chains of the swing. Something about doing that always makes him horny, something about tying up my wrists makes him want to grip my flesh, he goes for my throat. He grips it between his fingers and squeezes, the intention is not to stop my breathing, but to allow me to feels his force. It makes me wet when dadda touches me like that, I lean into his as he relaxes his grip and my face lands against his cock. I can feel his hardness underneath his shorts. I start to rub my face into it, and he pulls it out of his shorts. I take long, satisfied whiffs, I love the smell of both of their cocks, they smell different, but they have the same effect on me, it's hypnotic. He pushes in through my mouth and I become aware of the pain in my jaw again, it's okay to open wide, but it's hard to suck. Dadda seems to pick up on it as well, and he holds my face in one hand as he starts do thrust into my mouth. I fight for air, and gag at the same time. It feels very loud, but maybe that's just because of how quiet it is.

We're both jolted by the sound of a door closing, and we look up to see daddy making his way to us. He's holding the horrible whip in his hand, and a loud moan inadvertently comes out of the pit of my stomach as soon as I see it. They keep it here and they love taunting me with it, threatening to take me up into the mountains, to my favourite home, and make me cry until there is nothing left inside me.

"Why is she so...clothed?" Daddy asks dadda, putting his hand around dadda's cock and stroking my spit into the hard flesh.

Dadda leans over on him and lightly bites his shoulder, moaning quietly, as he inches closer to him.

"Let's whip the shit out of her," Dadda whispers into daddy's ear, but it's a loud whisper, meant for my ears more than anything else, "I'll get her clothes."

Dadda turns to me and begins to unbutton my dress, I wonder if he has forgotten he has to untie me to get it off and he seems to come to the same realisation at the exact same moment.

"I can see you've already cut some rope," daddy says to him, shaking his head, "You may as well cut her clothes off too."

He gets the scissors off the ground and begins to cut off my dress, I don't really care, I love it when they rip my clothes off me. It's rare to the see the process of having your clothes turned into turn so sped up, in a moment my clothes go from the warmth on my skin to shreds of garbage in the grass. I watch them fall in the yellow light coming from the lamp, and I want to touch them, just bunch them up in my hand and squeeze. Daddy reached down to a shred and balls it up, pushing it into my mouth. I bite on it with my incisors, I don't notice I am doing it, but it makes a jolt of pain go up and down my jaw, so I keep doing it. They unfurl the whip and take turns swinging it around in the air, they don't need to that, but they can't ever seem to resist the urge to play with it. They can't resist the urge to play with anything. They treat me like a little girl, but sometimes I wonder if there are little boys inside them somewhere.

I stop wondering, immediately, as one of those playful lashes lands on my left breast. I scream out into the ball of fabric in my mouth but even before I am done screaming, it lands again on my thigh. The pause is longer, as the whip changes hands and daddy takes it, he strikes me harder, and even in the darkness, I can see the welt forming on my right breast. He doesn't wait, even a few seconds before he hits me again, I scream so loud, the cloth falls out of my mouth and onto my lap. Dadda walks over and picks it up, pushing in into my mouth as if he is trying to punch it in place.

"Do not do that again," he says to me, choking me again with his hand, "I will shove you back into the dirt."

It's always surprising to me when he is cruel, I expect it from daddy all the time, but not from him. He takes walks with me and let's me draw on his arm, he kisses me frequently and fusses over my clothes, so each time he is cruel, even after years of seeing it, it surprises me. Every single time it feels like he is transforming into someone else before my eyes. He punches me in my arm before stepping away from me and I bite down on the cloth in determination to not make a sound, I'm still clenching my jaw when the whip lands again. I shake my head side to side, I don't know why, but it offers some kind of relief to move other parts of my body. I close my eyes and try to count the lashes, something about maths can be really soothing in the right circumstance, but each time I am able to calm down, dadda comes back to punch me. He doesn't like whips and belts like daddy does, he likes to beat me with his hands.

They're two very different beatings to get at the same time, even though I am sitting still on the swing, I feel like I am running from pillar to post.  I bite the gag to deal with the punches, I shake my head to deal with the strokes of the whip, and it's impossible to tell which one I am reacting to anymore. It feels like I am screaming with my body. My eyes start to water and before I know it, big fat tears start rolling down my cheeks, and onto dadda's knuckles.

"She cries," he says to daddy.

Daddy hits me harder until I find the impossible will to dry my own tears from within. I don't know how I know to do that, but I know. It all sounds like a very loud song in a language I don't speak, I am dancing to it, but I don't know how nor do I know if I am doing the right routine, the rhythm is universal though, beat knows no language but its own, and everyone seems to speak the language as well. I let my reactions flow in their rhythm even though it feels like my brain has left my body, or my body has left my brain. I don't notice, when the pain stops, I don't react as they walk to me and put their fingers, together, between my legs. They push inside me, one finger each and I can feel them intertwine inside me, it is such a strange sensation yet so familiar to me, they hold hands inside me.

Daddy pulls his cock out of his pants and daddy kneels strokes it in his hands before kneeling beside me, to take it in his mouth. I want it too but I am too exhausted, too confused, too dazed, to remember how to express that desire. Daddy grips my hair, as he gyrates, slowly, against dadda's face. Dadda stands up and moves behind me, pulling my legs up by the ankles, i fall backwards onto him. I look into his eyes, as daddy pushes his cock into my cunt. I moan out loud, and dadda pulls the cloth from my mouth and tosses it onto the ground. He bends down over my face and kisses me, biting my lip as his hands wraps itself around my throat again. Daddy starts to fuck ne harder, and the moans escaping my mouth get more guttural, I lean back over dadda as he chokes me and I close my eyes. Only one of them is inside me, but I can feels them both.

I feel daddy getting close as he begins to fuck me harder, his fingers intertwine with dadda's fingers around my throat. I open my eyes to kiss them kissing, at an impossible angle, as daddy fills me up with cum. He squeezes dadda's hand so hard he chokes me through it.

I scream.

I don't know why.

"You shouldn't have done that, little girl," daddy says, biting my ear, "Now you're going to have to sleep in the dirt."

Two daddies are meaner than one.