Don’t Call Me Daddy
One little word he doesn’t want you to say —
spread wide inside a tulle canopy bed in
the dark.
Easily you obey, every other way,
but bite through a lip to avoid the remark.
Braids in his hands pulled as he goes deep
to fill you with cum and perpetual doubt
that he’ll reappear if you’re indiscreet
with those two syllables he must fuck without.
Checks his reflection in your heart-shaped shades.
Buys you a rainbow of cable knit kneesocks.
Takes you to ice cream and skee ball arcades.
Requests a shaved pussy. Proffers lollipops.
Reads your daddy issues published in books
but they are not his — no matter now this looks.
Horror Sleaze Trash 