Unexpected After-Prom Consequences - Part 4

Tears for a spurned love turns into dark, sexy times ... that she won't even remember.

The rest of the week passed in a strange, suspended animation blur. I found myself walking on eggshells, terrified to test the boundaries of my influence over Emily again. It felt like a delicate balance between being a supportive father and a sexual predator. I kept telling myself that with great power comes great guilt, or some variation of that tired cliché.

The days were filled with the mundane clutter of life. I spent Tuesday fixing a leaky faucet in the guest bathroom and Wednesday dealing with a mountain of paperwork for work. On Thursday, we had a moment of genuine, lighthearted laughter when the neighbor’s golden retriever managed to get its head stuck inside an empty plastic laundry basket and wandered into our backyard, looking like a very confused, furry astronaut. For a few minutes, I felt like a normal man living a normal life.

But Friday changed everything.

I pulled into the driveway around 5:30 PM, expecting the usual quiet of the house. Instead, as I stepped through the front door, I heard it: a low, ragged sobbing coming from upstairs. My heart didn't just sink; it felt like it was being shredded by a dull blade. I rushed up the stairs, my mind racing through every possible catastrophe.

I found her in her bedroom. It was a fortress of soft things. She was buried under a mountain of stuffed animals, her face pressed deep into a pillow, her shoulders shaking with such violent grief that it looked like she was physically breaking apart. The sound was haunting. It was the exact same sound she had made for months after Sarah died. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated loss.

"Em? Honey, what happened?" I asked, kneeling by the bed, my voice trembling. "Did someone die? Is it someone at school?"

She bolted upright for a second, her eyes red and swollen, flashing with an intense, sudden anger that caught me off guard. She didn't answer. Instead, she let out a muffled scream into her pillow and collapsed back into the heap of plush toys, continuing to weep.

I stood up and retreated to the hallway, feeling the familiar sting of helplessness. For a moment, I was transported back to those first few months after the funeral, standing in this very hallway, feeling like the world had ended and I was powerless to fix it. But then, a realization struck me. I wasn't helpless anymore. I had a tool.

"Emily," I said, my voice dropping into that low, resonant tone I had practiced. "Emily, Sleep!"

The transformation was instantaneous. The sobbing stopped mid-breath. Her body went limp, and I walked back to her bed.

"Sit up, Emily," I commanded softly.

She obeyed with mechanical precision, sitting upright among the stuffed animals, her expression a blank mask of serenity.

"Tell me why you were crying," I said. "Tell me everything."

The words poured out of her in a monotone stream. She told me about Kaylee. I knew Kaylee; our families had been close enough for mini-vacations years ago. I remembered Jeff, Kaylee's father, laughing about how his wife had named their daughter after a character from Firefly. We had drifted apart, though, mostly because seeing Jeff with wife was a constant reminder of what I had lost.

"Kaylee asked Brandon out, and he said yes," Emily whispered. "She knew I liked him. She knew how much I liked him. And she did it anyway. She just... she took him."

I watched her, trying to process the heartbreak. "How much do you like him, Emily?"

"A lot," she said. The word carried a weight that felt almost obsessive. "I think about him all the time. I look for him in the halls. I look for his car. I check his Instagram every night."

As she spoke, the details became more intense. She described how she watched him from afar, how she knew his schedule, and then came the gut punch that made my breath catch.

"I get myself off to pictures of him," she admitted, her voice flat and devoid of shame. "Since Christmas break. I have pictures from his family trip to Cancun. The ones in the speedo. I think about him when I do it."

The familiar struggle hit me then. My mind began to race with a thousand questions. How did she do it? What was she actually doing? It felt like I was encroaching on her privacy, but if I didn't ask, I would always be in the dark. I needed to know. I needed to go there.

"Show me how you get yourself off, Emily," I said.

She didn't hesitate. She reached for her phone, her fingers scrolling through a gallery with practiced ease. She stared at the screen, her eyes fixed on a photo of Brandon leaning forward toward the camera, his expression almost beckoning. Without looking at me, she peeled her shorts and panties down to her ankles.

My jaw nearly hit the floor as I watched her reach beneath a pile of stuffed animals and pull out a round-handled hairbrush. She began to use it, thrusting the handle in and out of her vagina with a rhythmic, desperate intensity, all while staring deeply into the eyes of the boy on her screen.

I had to leave the room. I retreated into the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. A moment later, a sharp, stifled cry broke through the door, signaling her climax. I stood there, paralyzed, until I finally forced myself to go back in.

She was sitting there, staring blankly at the phone, the hairbrush resting on the bed beside her. There was a small, glistening smear of herself on the sheets between her legs. At that moment, the logic of my conscious mind failed, and a darker, more primal version of myself took the reins.

"Do you want Brandon to touch you, Emily?" I asked.

She nodded once, a slow, hypnotic movement. "Yes."

"Do you want Brandon to make you cum, Emily?"

Her nodding became more frantic, her eyes wide and vacant. "Yes... yes..."

"What else do you want, Emily?"

"I want him to spank me," she whispered.

The words hit me like a physical blow, the irony not totally lost on my frazzled mind. "What do you mean?"

"I want him to spank me with my hairbrush," she said, her voice growing more insistent. "On my pussy."

I felt lightheaded. I had to catch myself, performing a controlled collapse onto my knees on the floor just to keep from fainting. The devil in me was in full control now, driving my body toward her bed as if pulled by invisible strings.

"Lay down on your bed and let Brandon touch you, Emily," I commanded. "You are having a wonderful dream and Brandon is doing exactly what you want."

I pulled myself up and sat on the edge of the bed, my movements feeling disconnected from my will. My hand reached out, moving toward her. I began to rub her, my fingers finding her clitoris and her wet, pristine heat. She began to squirm, soft moans escaping her lips. I picked up the hairbrush, guiding the handle back inside her, fucking her with the plastic tool as if I were a stranger.

"Please," she whimpered every few seconds. "Please..."

I increased the speed, my hand working in tandem with the brush, but she only became more desperate. Finally, I reached a breaking point. I yanked the hairbrush out and, driven by an impulse I couldn't name, I swung it.

The blow landed with a harsh, squishy sound directly against her puffy labia. Her body arched violently, a high-pitched squeal escaping her as she hit a sudden, intense orgasm. "PLEASE!" she shrieked.

I didn't stop. Spank! Spank! Spank! Three more heavy, wet blows landed in rapid succession. Her body convulsed, making guttural, gasping noises before she finally collapsed into the pillows, panting heavily.

As my mind broke free of the haze, the guilt flooded back in, thick and suffocating. I realized that while my mind had been lost to these impulses, my actions had been a chaotic mix of intimacy and intensity. I looked at the hairbrush, the handle glistening with her essence. In a moment of pure, unthinking instinct, I brought it to my face and inhaled. The scent was intoxicating, a mixture of her and a phantom memory of Sarah’s heavenly perfume. Without thinking, I licked the handle, then suddenly found myself sucking the moisture off it as if I were starving.

"Dad?"

Her voice snapped me back to reality. She was looking up at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Before she could process the sight of me, before her expression could turn into rage or disgust, I acted.

"Emily, Sleep!" I commanded.

She dropped instantly. I knew I had to fix this, to rewrite the memory of my intrusion so it felt natural rather than invasive.

"Listen to me," I whispered, leaning over her. "I left your room as soon as you glared at me for asking if someone died. You fell into a deep, peaceful sleep because you were tired from all that crying. You had a wonderful, sexy dream about Brandon, and it made you feel better. When you wake up for dinner, you will feel happy and relieved. You won't remember me being in your room or asking those questions. Everything is normal."

I paused, my mind racing to create a way for this to happen again … with or without the guilt. "If you ever feel sad about Brandon again, you can always have those dreams. And when you want one, you will come to me and say, 'I'm going to brush my hair and go to bed.' That will be my signal to come give you a special dream. Now, drift off until dinner."

I left her there, feeling like I had just committed a beautiful horrific crime.

A few hours later, I was sitting in the kitchen, staring at an enormous spread of DoorDash food—her favorite pasta and a decadent chocolate dessert—feeling like an addict waiting for a fix. When she finally came downstairs, she looked refreshed, though she didn't mention the dream or the hairbrush.

"Thanks for the food, Dad," she said, smiling as she ate.

I watched her, my heart heavy with a strange, hungry anticipation. I waited for it. I waited for her to say those words: I'm going to brush my hair and go to bed.

But when she finished eating, we watched a few shows, cuddling as close as normal, nothing out of the ordinary. As she headed upstairs, she only gave me a short hug and a. "Night, Dad!"

The silence that followed was deafening. I sat there in the quiet house, feeling the same desperate, hollow ache of a heroin addict who had just watched their last syringe being flushed away.