Soap
Daddy runs her finger along the bookshelf ledge and brings it nearer to her face, eyes squinting and brow furrowed as she inspects her finger pad, life-worn from years of gripping motorcycle handlebars and pots too hot and wrists and thighs of dirty girls like me. She holds her finger closer to the lamp and squints again.
“Dust,” she nearly spits, turning to face me with a scowl. “Do it again, Ella.”
I catch my huff before it leaves me. My mind feels chickenfeed-scattered when I try to focus on anything lately, even something as straightforward as chores. Daddy’s friend, Frances, had come over tonight for drinks, and Daddy had told me to clean up before her arrival. Being a service submissive sounds so sexy until there’s grit on your knees, bleach watering your eyes. I’d already chipped a nail from scrubbing; not something I care about, really, but the lack of symmetry bothers me, makes me feel unkempt. I like feeling kept.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, Daddy,” I tell her. But a frustrated exhalation frees itself and Daddy gives me a hard look. Fuck I love her hard looks. I can’t help but smile a little bit, try to catch her eye, but apparently that was the wrong thing to do.
Out of nowhere her hand (those rough, strong, freckled, calloused hands) snakes up the back of my neck and grabs hold of a wad of my hair, gripping close to the roots.
“OW,” I yelp out,...