Ava's Immoral Soul Ch. 02

"Ava..."

"Mmph."

"Ava, wake up."

"M'dog ate it."

"Ava, we don't have a dog."

"Dad? Ugh. Can't go t'school. Diphtheria."

"AVA!"

"What?!"

Sitting upright, Ava peered up with bleary eyed surprise at her dad, her sleep-muddled brain lending her face a pointedly blank expression until she saw the letter clutched tightly in his fist. Huston, we have a problem, her mind quipped randomly as her gaze darted swiftly from the letter to the telltale vein on his forehead. Yep. It was throbbing.

Five, four, three, two...

"We need to talk, young lady. Go upstairs and take a shower, and then march your butt right back down here." Aside from that terrible twitch on her dad's brow, his face was completely devoid of any emotion. That wasn't a good sign.

"Okay, daddy," she squeaked, sounding more like a four year old than the wise, wordly woman of eighteen years that she was. There was a brief moment of panic when she remembered that her panties were rolled down and that she was sitting in a puddle of her own fluids, and there was no way she could discreetly fix either with him towering over her. Just as her face lost all of its color save for two high points of crimson, he turned his back on her and stalked off to the kitchen.

She heard the scrape of chair legs on linoleum, the soft sigh of a plastic cushion as it depressed beneath his weight. Breathing a sigh of her own in relief, she quickly got off the chair and promptly fell on her ass again. Her leg had fallen asleep. "D'oh!"

Clenching her teeth against the pins and needles, she briskly rubbed her leg down until the sensation passed, then tried this whole standing ordeal again. Much better results the second time. Tugging her panties back up where they belonged, she glanced down at the soaking patch of upholstery and sighed. She'd just have to hope her dad didn't notice -- she couldn't very well go in the kitchen right now and get a damp rag to wash it off with him waiting in there.

Feeling as though her feet were weighted down with lead, Ava trudged up the stairs and into the bathroom, her mind working at twenty clicks per second for a way out of this mess.

* * *

When Ava came back downstairs, smelling crisp and clean in a pair of forest green sweats and a light grey tee that read "Fright Attendant" on the back, her dad was still lurking at the kitchen table, drumming his hand impatiently on the polished surface.

Her soaking wet hair was hanging over one shoulder, nearly reaching her navel as she toweled it off, nervously plunking her butt down in the chair opposite from him. There was an uncomfortably long moment when they both regarded each other, Ava looking like a puppy caught in the act of piddling on the Persian rug and Rob looking like he wanted to do more than just take a rolled up newspaper to her.

Unable to bear the silence any more, Ava cleared her throat -- just a light, feminine little ahem - and pressed the towel against the drape of her hair. "Dad, I... I know you're really mad," she began slowly, watching his face closely for any reaction that might prompt her in the right direction. Aside from lifting a brow in a mocking gesture, he didn't give her anything to go on.

This is worst than I thought, she realized with a growing pit of dread in her gut.

"Dad?"

He just continued to stare at her, that brow quirking up again on an otherwise blank face. She felt her face heat with a flush of anger -- he was just going to let her sit there and flounder, not saying anything even though he knew that she knew how angry he was? She'd rather him scream and throw stuff around than just sit there, looking all impassive.

"Dad, I'm sorry. I really am. I know... I know that doesn't cut it, but I'll make it up to you. I won't get in any more trouble at school. I'll bring my grades up, I'll stop-"

"You may not even be going back to school, Ava," her father pointed out coolly, his voice giving away about as much as his expression. Ava bit her bottom lip and looked at him imploringly. "Please, dad. I truly am sorry."

"How long, Ava?"

For a moment, she just looked at him blankly. "Not following."

"How long have you been a lesbian?"

Ava couldn't help it; after getting over her shock at his blunt question, she started to laugh. He cut her down with a scathing look, and she quickly pressed a hand over her mouth, her laughter dying to a giggle that just sort of puttered out. She cleared her throat and hesitantly started lowering her hand, keeping it close to her mouth in case she gave in to the tickling laughter that still lurked in the low of her throat.

"Well," she began slowly, dragging the syllable out a little longer than necessary, "I'm not a lesbian, Dad."

"Reeaally," he drawled, leaning back in his chair with disbelief etched all over his face.

"Yes, really, Dad. Ro- that girl and I, well, we were just fooling around. It really didn't mean anything..."

"Is that what you're going to tell St. Peter at the gates of Heaven, Ava? Is it? Is that what you're going to tell the Lord Almighty when you're prostrate at the feet of his throne, begging for mercy? That you were just fooling around? That it didn't really mean anything?!"

Oh, Lord, Ava thought numbly, here we go. Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, she carefully folded her damp towel and laid it across one thigh, hooking a loose tendril behind her ear and shoving the rest of the heavy mass over her shoulder. When her dad got into the religious angle, she had to be very, very careful.

"I'll go to confession," she said softly, not looking him in the eye.

"Do you think you can just Hail Mary your way out of this one?" There was such bitterness in his voice that Ava flinched, looking up at him. There was this strange ripple that crossed his face, like he was trying to make several different expressions at once, none of them pleasant. For a moment, she was so baffled that all she could do was stare at him, wondering, what demons are you hiding, Daddy?

But by then, he was looking at her so coolly, so neutrally that she could only assume she'd imagined the shadow that had darkened his features.

"Dad, please, just trust me on this. I'm not a lesbian. I know that's hard for you to believe, considering... well, just considering. But it's true. What happened today at school was just a... a one time thing," she said as earnestly as she could, even though her fingers and toes were crossed so tight she thought they might lose circulation. "I'm really sorry I disappointed you," she added softly, and this time she wasn't lying through her teeth.

He looked at her and finally his expression softened, even if just a little. "I am disappointed in you, Ava," he sighed. "Look, I know it's hard on you, losing your mother like that. It's hard on me, too-"

"I know, dad."

"If you know how hard it is on me, then why do you insist on acting like this? Ever since your mom passed away, I've been working my ass off to support you, and for what? For nothing!

"No, you had to get yourself kicked out of public school. Do you realize how much your tuition at St. Magdalene's is costing me? And now you might even be expelled from St. Mag's!

"Ava, I'm running out of options here. I've tried everything, and so far, nothing has worked. You're backing me into a corner here, honey, and it needs to stop. It's going to stop."

"Dad..." Ava whispered, tears stinging at her eyes from the hot lump that had gathered painfully in her throat. "Dad, please. I'm sorry! How many times do I have to say it? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Damnit, Ava, sorry doesn't cut it anymore! How many times am I supposed to forgive you just because you say you're sorry?" He sputtered for a moment, as though he was so disgusted with her that he had to spit the words out. "And then you just turn around and do something else! I'm sick of it, Ava!"

Hanging her head, she stared numbly down at her hands, clenched so tightly in her lap that her interlocked knuckles were splotchy with red and white. Her vision blurred, making the splotches tremble and waver, and it was with a choked little voice that she finally asked him, "What are you going to do, then?"

She heard him breathe out a heavy sigh. "What I should have started doing three years ago, Ava."

Something in his voice made her look up quickly, her stomach clenching around a fresh surge of dread, although this time there was a pervasive note of fear. "Dad?" she inquired hesitantly, not liking the way his gray-green eyes were focused somewhere beyond her shoulder, or the muscle in his tightly set jaw that twitched a counter-rhythm to the throbbing vein on his forehead.

Her dad was sitting right in front of her, familiar as could be with his graying brown hair and crooked nose, but it was a stranger staring past her in those vacant, far away eyes.

"Dad?" she asked again, tentatively, pressingly. He turned his eyes to her own, and Ava felt a distinct chill shiver up and down her spine at the contact.

"Wait for me in the living room," was all he said before abruptly sliding his chair back, the resounding scrape loud in her ears, and got to his feet, leaving the kitchen quietly.

The silence that hung over the kitchen in his wake was almost tangible, pregnant with ominous undertones. For a long moment, Ava could only sit immobile, shocked and more than just a little concerned for her own hide.

"Shit," she uttered softly, staring at the empty doorway that he had only recently passed through. She had never in all her years seen him react to something quite like this. Even in the height of his anger, he had never actually raised his voice -- he had seemed almost wooden in his anger.

She was in a bigger mess than she had imagined when she got caught in the first place.

Plucking the towel off her lap, she slapped it onto the table and got to her feet as well, following the path he had taken out of the kitchen but heading to the living room instead. She sat down on the couch and glanced at the grandfather clock. Seven thirty.

The plate of cookies and a half finished soda still sat on the end table near his recliner. The shiny spot on the upholstery was still there, too. Ava almost got up to go back to the kitchen, intent on getting a rag and cleaning it up, but she hesitated. She didn't want to explain to her dad what she was doing if he caught her in any step of the act.

So instead of going anywhere, she just waited as patiently as she could, toying with the hem of her over-sized tee, trying not to think about what her dad was planning on doing but naturally finding herself unable to think of anything else.

When she looked at the clock again, it was seven forty-five. What was he doing up there? Even with her nerves singing a sharp, jangling tune, she couldn't help but feel irritated at him. What the hell was his problem? Sure, she had screwed up, but seriously, he should be used to it by now. Granted, being caught in the shower with another girl was bad, but it couldn't be worst than the time she dubbed her socially inept history teacher a botched sex-change victim in front of the entire class and then, to a chorus of shocked laughter, yanked on Mrs. Tabor's badly styled hair to see if it was a wig.

In retrospect, she should have known that no one would have bought a wig that hideous.

That little incident had been the final straw that got her booted out of public school. Ava still couldn't help but grin stupidly whenever she thought about it.

"Stop smirking and stand up," a soft voice said from beside her, and Ava jumped off the couch, more out of surprise than obedience. Whirling around with her heart pounding at the base of her throat, she clamped a hand to her chest and stared at her father.

"I.. I wasn't smirking, Da-"

"That's enough, Ava," he interjected dispassionately, "Go stand in front of the recliner." His eyes were focused again somewhere behind her. Ava swallowed thickly, murmuring a weak little sound of consent, and backed up until she felt the recliner's cushion bumping against her legs.

"Open it," he instructed, still speaking in that cold, unfeeling tone.

Confused, Ava turned around and leaned over the chair, cranking the lever until the leg rest unfolded and the back angled down. Straightening up to face him again, she huffed at her wet hair, sweeping away the strands that had fallen in her face.

"Turn around and get on your knees," he said quietly, and when Ava didn't move, he finally looked right at her. "Now." Her heart was doing a jittery two-step in her chest, but she did as she was told, facing the extended recliner and sinking into a kneel in front of it.

"Put your hands on the armrests and lay over the cushion," he commanded, sounding more like a robot than her father. Panic clawing at her insides now, she looked over her shoulder at him, green eyes wide with disbelief.

"Don't make me tell you again, Ava," he warned in a silky whisper, his expression unreadable.

Ava did as she was told, stretching her belly over the leg rest, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. It put her face right in the musky wet spot, and even though she had figured out by now that he was going to physically punish her, she couldn't stop herself from breathing in deeply, instantly aroused.

This is not the time, Ava thought a little wildly, fear overriding any sense of indignation she felt at the prospect of getting a spanking at her age. She strained to hear the slightest movement from him, to feel the vibration of his first step on the floor, but there was nothing. The clock ticked on resolutely, growing to a deafening pitch in the otherwise silent room.

Did he realize he was making it worse? Was he doing it on purpose? The wait was making her manageable fear rapidly escalate to terror. Ten ticks of the clock, then twenty. Still, nothing. Just the sound of his and her breathing, barely audible over that damnable ticking, his measured and controlled, hers irregular, panicky.

Ava felt tears start welling up in her eyes after thirty seconds. Still, he didn't come. He didn't even make a movement that she could hear or be aware of from her position. The tip of her nose was touching the wet spot. The smell was starting to overwhelm her. She didn't want to be turned on right now, but the growing thrill of trepidation was only seeming to intensify her arousal. She could feel wetness gathering between her thighs, knew that she was starting to drip.

Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five... tick, tock, tick, tock. Ava was crying now, her tears joining the musky stain on the recliner.

It wasn't until a full minute passed that she heard the unmistakable creak and jangle of a belt coming unbuckled. Oh, no, Ava thought, her body stiffening, he can't be serious! It was a scare tactic, she convinced herself. It had to be. He was just trying to freak her out, scare her into compliance.

Well, it worked. She was scared -- he didn't have to try anymore. "Daddy," she croaked tearfully, "Daddy, ple-"

"If you want to make this harder on yourself, then by all means, keep talking."

He was coming closer to her now, ignoring her muffled sobs, sliding the belt through the succession of loops with a resounding hiss of leather glossing over denim. Her shoulders shook, the wet spot on the cushion growing larger by the second with her tears, and her fingers clutched the armrests in a white knuckled grip.

"Are you wearing panties, Ava?" The question surprised her, but even more shocking was the quality of his voice when he asked her, borderlining on intimacy. He said it in that same silky whisper he'd used earlier.

"Yes," she finally managed to choke out in response. He was standing right behind her; his shadow had fallen over her. Her skin was prickling all over with goosebumps, every moment heavier than the last in anticipation for the first, awful strike.

The first contact he made with her made her cry out like she'd been flayed alive, the reaction so instantaneous that it was already out before she realized it wasn't the biting sting of leather; just the firm pressure of his palm on her lower back. Ashamed that she'd yelped for nothing, she buried her face in the damp cushion, muffling her sobs.

His hand lingered there for several seconds, the clock ticking each one in a steady monotone. All of this delay was making her crumble, one wall at a time, until she felt weak and miserable, as small and inconsequential as an ant under his implacable gaze.

Finally, his hand moved a little, sliding down, a thumb hooking snugly into the waistband of her sweats. "Dad, please!" He either didn't hear her pathetic little whimper, or chose to ignore it, because after a scant moment's hesitation he yanked the pants down to her upper thighs, right where they met the ample curve of her bottom. The house wasn't cold, but the air on her skin still came to her as a shock.

At least she had panties on. Gray cotton boyshorts the same color as her shirt, the hem of which he slid up her back, fully exposing her rump to him. Ava was trembling, clutching at the armrests as though for support, her head turned just enough to the side so she could breathe through her sobs.

"Forgive me, Ava," her father croaked, and just like that she knew, simply knew that he wasn't talking about what he had just done; it was a precursor to what he was about to do. Then she heard the whoosh of leather streaking through the air, felt her suddenly distant body tense in apprehension, and heard herself scream when the leather bit into her backside. Despite her fear, she had fully expected him to either back out at the last minute, or at least take it easy on her, but that... that had to have been full force! Ava sucked in a breath so hard that it made her lungs ache, and then she released it in a keening wail. Fresh wracking sobs tore through her, her nerve endings singing a trilling tune as high and grating as a banshee's.

"Relax your muscles, Ava," her father said almost tenderly, although his voice was still eerily void of true compassion.

"Daddy, no... please, not again!"

He didn't respond. Despite his warning, her body went rigid when she heard the whistle of the belt coming down a second time, and the pain felt like a shockwave, jolting from her sensitive rear straight to the tips of her toes and her eyeballs. Ava yelped like a beaten dog and started scrambling up the chair in blind pain and panic, trying to escape him and that awful belt. This was going wrong, all wrong, it hurt too much, she was going to die if he did that again, just die--

His hand clenched in her shirt and he jerked her back so hard that the fabric dug into her throat, choking her for one terrifying moment. Then his grip relaxed, and she felt his body pressing over hers, his breath hot on the shell of her ear.

"Resisting will only make it worse, Ava. Just be still and accept your punishment," he whispered in her ear, his voice reminding her of that far off look in his eyes, and she cried harder, burying her face in the cushion, feeling her heart pound back at her and hearing the blood rush in her ears.

Before he straightened, standing over her again, she could have sworn for one disorienting second that she felt the brush of a denim-covered erection against the jut of her hip. Her mind was reeling, trying to reconstruct the fleeting impression, to determine if she had imagined it or not, when the leather struck down again.

Surprisingly, it didn't hurt as much this time because she hadn't tensed up in expectation, but it still drug another howling wail from her chest. "Daddeeeeee!!"

"Would you prefer my hand, Ava?"

The question didn't make sense to her at first; all she could think about was the pain. Her nerve endings were on fire; she was sure her ass would be black and blue tomorrow. She finally managed to gather a steady enough breath to speak with and hesitantly said, "What?"