Daddy Daughter Rape Party

Daddy Daughter Rape Party

Nym Hexel

The apartment buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, the air thick with the scent of perfume and the taste of cheap wine. Ava's place wasn't the biggest, but it was hers, a sanctuary from the world outside. Tonight, though, her sanctuary was filled with her friends, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm that mimicked the beat of the music blasting from the speakers.

Ava leaned against the doorframe, a glass of wine in her hand, and watched them. She could feel the energy of the party, the reckless freedom that came with being young and wild.

Her friends were a blur of laughter and movement, their voices a cacophony of drunken chatter. Ava's eyes scanned the room, taking in the chaos with a sense of detachment. She was the observer, the one who watched from the sidelines, but tonight, she felt a strange restlessness. She wanted to be part of the madness, to lose herself in the music and the laughter.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and the noise of the party seemed to die down. All eyes turned to the doorway, and Ava felt a chill run down her spine. Martin, her father, stood there, his stern face a stark contrast to the carefree atmosphere.

His brown hair, with silver streaks at the temples, was dishevelled, as if he'd run his hands through it one too many times. His grey eyes scanned the room, taking in the mismatched furniture, the faded posters, and the grimy windows. Ava could see the disapproval in his gaze, the thinly veiled contempt.

"Ava, a word," he said, his voice cutting through the music like a blade. He didn't have to say it twice. She pushed off the counter and weaved her way through the crowd, her friends' eyes following her with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

As she passed, she could hear their whispers, feel their stares, but she didn't stop, didn't acknowledge them. She was on a path, one she couldn't control, not when it came to Martin.

He was waiting for her in the kitchen, his back to the sink, arms crossed over his chest. The room was small and Ava could feel the weight of his gaze as she walked in.

"What are you doing here, Dad?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She could see the tension in his jaw, the tightness of his mouth.

He was angry, and she knew why. Her rebellious behaviour, her late nights, her friends - all of it was a reflection of her defiance. She braced herself for the storm.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Ava?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You think I won't find out about your little parties? You think I won't hear about your fucking around?"

Ava flinched at his harsh words, but she didn't back down. "It's my life, Dad. I can do what I want."

He took a step towards her, his eyes never leaving hers.

Ava could see the fire burning in them, the raw desire that made her stomach flip. She knew what was coming, but she couldn't stop it. She was powerless against him, against the twisted dance they knew so well.

"You know you're not meant to throw parties here, not since the last time. We let you live in this apartment to help you out, but you don't look after it at all," he said. Clearly, this wasn't the first time she had done this.

The last time, the apartment had ended up in shambles, with broken glass and alcohol stains on the worn-out carpet. Ava had been grounded for a week, her phone taken away, and her car keys hidden. But she couldn't help it; she loved the feeling of freedom, the adrenaline rush of defying her father's rules.

"Dad, relax," Ava said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. "It's just a little party. We're not destroying the place."

"A little party?" Martin scoffed. "Ava, you've got half the neighbourhood in here.

I should call the cops," Martin snapped, his voice a low growl.

Ava rolled her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, Dad. It's just a few friends."

Martin took a step closer, his presence ...