Chapter IV
A Punishment She Knows
The cat’s absence lingers inside, tucked into the corners of the room. Even as I load the dryer, I feel it. The clothes hit the drum with a wet slap, leggings and t-shirts suctioning to my arms as I shove them into the metal mouth. I jerk forward under the weight of the sodden pile, the heat sticking the fabric to my chest. Inside, they collapse into a knot—still tethered by a bra clasp or the twisted leg of jeans—until the drum forces them apart. Waiting for clean clothes feels like scraping mold off a tile that will never come clean—a social norm. Hygiene on the road is a losing battle against my scent.
The laundromat hums. Loose change thrashes against the alloy, a violent rattle that gnaws at my nerves. I can’t sit still. I walk outside, aimless, searching for something to distract me. The haze smacks me, the sun locking onto my eyes until I shield them with my hand—brief relief before the burn resumes.
I drift into a neighborhood where the air sticks to my skin. The lawns are wild with St. Augustine grass—thick, serrated, riddled with weeds. Ferns crawl like green veins under chain-link fences. Palmetto fronds press against siding. Black fuzz streaks the stucco, bleeding downward like ink. Lawn flamingos, their beaks splintered, slump into the soil like forgotten props. A melting lawn jockey crouches by a birdbath slick with mosquito larvae, wings vibrating above it. A horsefly circles my head; I swat it away before it breaks skin.
The houses slump, exhaling years of suffocation and storms that have hollowed them out from the inside. Wooden Craftsman frames with paint faded to grays, browns, and a few washed-out blues. Porches bow under their weight, patched with plywood that’s already curling. Rust leaches from the nails in thin orange veins, staining everything it touches. Hurricanes have elbowed this place for decades—never direct hits, just glancing blows that soften edges until they give.
These houses were born in the age of groves, long before Andrew rewrote the rules. The land was parceled out to men who believed citrus could save them. The soil was sandy but forgiving. The mill—still visible from the edge of the highway—once processed timber from the swampy lowlands. That industry lifted these houses, holding them together with lumber and hope, until both were spent. Now the mill squats in the distance, metal ribs showing through oxidation, a monument to what rots slowly instead of burning out. Their walls slump into limestone that sips from hidden springs. Windows hold firm out of habit, not code. Roofs stitched together from whatever the last storm didn’t steal—no elevations, no assurances—just the silent gamble of surviving the next flood. And still, they stand.
I catch my reflection in a cracked full-length mirror leaning against a melting carport. The glass smells faintly of wet drywall. That version of me is gone, and this is the collateral remainder, coated in grime and ash. But walking here, I can still see her—folding laundry, cooking dinner, believing a house could anchor her. Back when I had a partner, stability meant ownership: morning coffee on a porch swing, weekend trips to hardware stores, insurance premiums, interest rates, and the inevitabilities of death and taxes. Even the fights we had then were domestic—about bills, about schedules. Ordinary. Manageable.
A glimmer catches my eye—something startlingly clean. On the corner stands a renovated house, with new siding in the color of bleached bone. Trim so white it hurts my eyes. The porch has been scrubbed of its history, vacuum-sealed nostalgia wrapped in indestructible modern material. The yard is manicured to perfection, with ornamental grass shaved into something that looks fake, even to the bugs. It’s a museum exhibit of a house—taxidermied domesticity. The renovation hasn’t saved the house; it’s embalmed it.
I know the type who did this. The interlopers. New York, probably. Maybe Austin. COVID refugees buying cheap dreams in dying towns. They don’t see the rot because they don’t stay long enough to smell it. New construction has stripped the soul from the home—modeling it after a fantasy the neighborhood never promised.
Looking at it, I feel something twist. A mourning. Not for what’s new, not for what’s lost, but for the space in between—the space that gets paved over. It parallels my own body, stripped and rebuilt in pieces that don’t fit. I can’t digest it. I don’t try to. The itch screams past thought—no metaphor, no poetry—just my body perishing out loud.
The itch has taken over. It’s no longer an occasional scratch—it’s a constant command. My hand drifts down without permission, clawing past elastic like an addict fumbling for a fix. Even in public. Even when I know people can see. I don’t care. I can’t stop. My nails drag across the swollen folds until they sting. The skin there feels alive, feverish, throbbing under the pressure—a tart warmth leaks under them. Pubic hairs snag between my fingers, wiry sentinels guarding the bloom festering underneath. They tear out in little yanks, stuck to my knuckles with skin brine.
The discharge clings—thick, clotted, stringing between my fingers when I pull back—spoiled cottage cheese, boiled from the body, slick and grainy. I dig deeper, as if something waits to be uncovered. It multiplies, eager to be found. I roll it in my palm, rub it into my skin until the white residue vanishes, leaving only the faint smell of damp bread.
The smell trails me—sugary then spoiled—a cloud that clings to my skin. It threads through the air as I cross back to the laundromat. I am coated, perfumed by my infection—an animal wrapped in its musk, carrying the proof of what’s growing inside. The clothes are still slightly damp. I shove them into the trash bag. They smell better than I do.
The bag leaks condensation onto my leg as I haul it across the parking lot. Each step makes it thud against my knee, a pendulum of wet fabric. The clothes smell faintly of detergent cut with something stale—like they’ve absorbed the air instead of cleaned it.
The drive back is short but drags. The A/C breathes out lukewarm air that tastes of dust and coins. My thighs cling to the seat, my skin raw against the vinyl with every shift. The itch throbs, a dull alarm I try to ignore by gripping the wheel tighter.
The motel rises out of a haze. A couple fights by the ice machine, voices slicing through the humidity. A Styrofoam cup skitters across the lot, catches in an oil puddle, and spins until it sinks. I park under the lone patch of shade, half-swallowed by bougainvillea clawing at the roof. The petals scream fusia against the stained beige walls.
Inside, the room hasn’t changed. No one has dared to touch my mess. The air is heavy with mildew, the carpet still damp where the A/C leaks. The quilt sits balled on the chair, stiff with film and residue. I drop the trash bag by the door; a baked, chemical funk escapes, laced with the tang of my own body.
I peel off my shorts and underwear, fabric clinging to my skin like old tape. They hit the floor with a wet slap. The infection seeps out, sharp and wet, undeniable as breath. I sit on the bed’s edge, legs apart, fingers already moving without thought.
I grab my phone and try to position the camera on my vagina. I inspect with grotesque curiosity. In this moment, I separate from my body. I examine it with the eyes of an alien. The skin is breaking down in patches, but all the camera can capture is red—deep, pulsating red imposed on flabby petals adorned with unruly, thick black curls.
A guy once told me I had a “fat pussy.” I don’t remember who, but he said it as if it were a compliment. As if it were a feature I should take pride in, maybe even advertise as an element of my sexual differentiation. I contemplated what that meant. I thought about the other “pussies” he must have been comparing mine to. What did they look like? What made mine so fat?
I lay down and text porn into my internet browser. The search bar is familiar with these requests and fills in the world before I get to the O, and opens a site primed and prepared for my arrival. I’m greeted by a slew of well-curated thumbnails of petite women, no older than 25, splayed out in a variety of positions in front of a variety of older men. I slow my scrolling. Their bodies glow under the punishing lights, bent into shapes that appear broken rather than posed. Thick hands clutch at throats, at hair, gripping hips like handles.
The titles scream: Daddy’s Little Secret. Punished by My Father’s Friend. Stepdaughter Needs Discipline. They dance with the line, daring me to cross with them. The first time, I shut the window, stomach turning. But disgust ferments. Curiosity creeps in. The “stepdad” tag—corporate disclaimer—made it bearable—a legal bandage over something feral. Soon, the caveat dulled the edge. I didn’t want it dulled. I wanted the words unqualified. Raw. I wanted to hear it said like a curse: ‘Are you Daddy’s little girl?’
I stopped looking for the softened version. Daddy’s hard cock wasn’t a reward; it was a punishment for being a dirty little slut, for wearing your skirt too short, for having a crush. I wanted the titles that promised punishment: You’ve Been a Bad Girl. I Have to Punish You. Father’s Discipline for His Whore Daughter. The thumbnails matched—pigtails yanked back like reins, underwear torn mid-frame, girls crying in ways that looked too real to be staged. Daddy’s dick was the rod meant to spoil the child and cleanse the sin from the body he claimed to own.
“Listen to your father,” he would say while spanking a raw pink ass before sliding ruffled panties aside and fiercely fingering her tight little pussy, while she begged him to stop.
“Is this how your boyfriend does it?” He’ll ask.
“Is this how you like it, you whore?” He reminds her, impatiently, that no one does it better than him. In this world, fatherhood eclipses the clumsy affection of boys and turns degradation into ritual.
I select a thumbnail featuring a metal bat. A large Russian man in a dirty tank top forces his daughter to strip. She cries while removing each piece of clothing at a disappointing speed. I don’t know what he is saying, but I don’t need to. He demands rigor and efficiency.
I claw excitedly for my clitoris with my middle and ring fingers. It burns. When the girl is entirely stripped, he clamps her neck with one hand, fists her hair with the other. The sound she makes is closer to an animal than a scream.
Is it familiar to her–a punishment she knows? He yells into her face, spit bouncing off her perfect skin. She covers her tiny tits, a futile attempt at modesty, and apologizes unflinchingly. The words fall flat. He’s determined. I move my fingers in sync with her whining. I’m slow at first, almost massaging the infection, nullifying the strong impulse to scratch. He leads her like an animal to an unmade bed. He drags her to the unmade bed like livestock on a rope. The room is dark, small-town sad—walls yellowed, curtains limp. It reeks of secrets, the kind cultivated in rural corners where no one’s watching, not even God.
He forces her to get on all fours. She fights back, trying to stand back up almost reflexively in a last attempt to avoid the unavoidable. He shouts something garbled, voice softer now but no less insane, while clutching fistfuls of her flesh—handling her like a prize hog at the county fair.
I smile to myself and increase the speed and pressure of my fingers while rebalancing the phone on my chest. He peels off his shirt and delivers a slap that barely stings—less punishment than a signal, a warning to brace for what’s coming. He thrusts two fingers into her as she begins to moan in unexpected pleasure. She talks back in a soft, welcoming tone, her lust for the punishment surfacing. She knows she’s been a bad girl. Dismayed by her pleasure, his frustration flares. “Oh, you like that?” he spits—half question, half threat. He drives in another finger. Her moans rise, sharper now, and she meets his eyes with a daring glance just as he shifts his weight and forces his whole fist inside her.
The rapture climbs inside of me, a wicked glee at the sight of something that shouldn’t be seen. Fluids of different viscosities blend into a paste, coating everything. My toes stretch toward the door, twitching to the rhythm of my rising pleasure until one cracks audibly. My glutes lock, trembling, clenching like they’re holding me together.
She laughs at him. The sound cuts through the room, and he falters—flustered, humiliated. In a snap, he shoves her down and storms off camera. The girl crawls back into position, on all fours, hips swaying in a taunt. He returns holding a silver aluminum baseball bat. Her face drains. She sits up, pleading, voice cracking. Her distress feeds him. He revels in it—an unplanned escalation, punishment tailored for a girl who didn’t know when to stop. “She needs to be punished,” I whisper to myself while reaching down with my other hand. I push my left middle finger into my vigina. I feel my muscles tense, resisting the interruption and rejecting the interference. I push it up and down, adjusting the force in coordination with my other hand.
He slicks the bat with lubricant—an unexpected kindness, almost love. I force my eyes open as he eases the cold metal into her. My face twists between revulsion and hunger. The orgasm hovers, hesitant, as I watch her body fight, then surrender—to Daddy’s cold, metallic discipline.
The video cuts off with a prompt to pay to see the whole scene. My phone flops down on my chest, the screen going dark against my overheated skin. The orgasm floats away, untethered. It’s lost to the buffering void, to the unfinished act, to the cheap mechanics of paywalls and bad connections.
I exhale in defeat. The craving in my body dulls to a low throb. The itching fades for now, leaving only the raw sting of everything I’ve opened up.