A bundle of Smut stories;)

A very engaging Nanny

“Daddy, I promise I won’t get into any trouble,” I beg, kneeling on the edge of the bed as I watch him get dressed.

He watches me pout and plead in the mirror, as he knots his tie and fixes his cuffs, before turning around and walking over to me.

“It’s not going to happen, little one,” he says, kissing me atop my head, “You know you cannot be trusted.”

My retort makes it all the way to my lips but it is stifled by the back of his hand. He doesn’t say anything as he thumbs the swelling that immediately appears on my lip, and I know it may be time to stop arguing. Daddy is harmless when he is indulging me with words, much scarier when he stops talking. Still, I’d much rather he stay here with me or leave me be than have me watched by a rotation of his troupe of courtesans. I hate them. He says they are nice people and I’d have a much easier time of it if I just tried but I won’t do it, I hate them so much. As he pulls my shirt over my head, the doorbell rings. He eyes me, as if he wishes to dare me to object, and I am much too immature to not take the bait.

“I’m not going to be nice to her,” I say, refusing to meet his eye.

“That’s your decision, isn’t it?” He says, holding me up to his gaze by my chin, “You have to do everything she says whether you like it or not, or we can put you back in the trunk and see how long it takes for you to choose to be nice.”

“Daddy, please…” I try one last time, even though it has never worked before.

“Go take a shower, get dressed and come meet your nanny out in the living room,” he says.

I shower in a hurry. It makes me feel so horrible think of him with all these women, and so angry. I scrub myself into a lather so thick, it falls off me in chunks. I step out of the bathroom without running a towel through my hair and dress myself in the first thing I pull out of my closet. Daddy usually puts my clothes out for me, but I guess, he didn’t think it was important enough to do it today. He is more eager to be elsewhere. I put on my slippers and with my clothes already half-drenched from my hair, I rush out to the living room, but it’s empty. I would go knocking on doors until I find the source of the faint grunting and moaning that reverberates around the house, but I know not to do that, so I wait. I cross my arms over my lap, sit in the armchair by the lamp and wait. In only a few minutes, I hear the click-clack of heels coming towards me. She walks into the middle of the room and stands before me. She’s a little dishevelled, but otherwise, quite magnificently put together.

“Hello,” she says, in that honey-sweet tone of warmth that always comes from the mouths of women who smell like flowers, “Your daddy will be right out.”

I want to hit her. I really want to hit her. I wouldn’t but only because I won’t get away with it. I hate how good she looks too. Daddy won’t let me do any of it. He won’t get me do my nails, he won’t let me put on pretty dresses that hug my hips, he won’t let me put on make-up or get my hair done. He won’t even let me put on perfume or shave my legs. He says it’s not for good little girls, and someday, when I grow up, I’ll understand, but he won’t ever let me grow up. It’s strange to be frozen in time like this, like a sentient time-capsule buried alive, and forced to keep living the same story over-and-over again, while trapped inside a box that may never be opened. I feel like the people inside snow-globes, depicting such wholesome virtue and innocence, eternal imagery, like a fucking poem. We love that, don’t we? The immortality of snapshots and moments preserved forever, but they’re aren’t just preserved, are they? They’re frozen. Stuck in one place forever. He dresses me all in white, makes me pray to a faceless entity, forces me to atone for every error even as it makes me devolve into a seething mass of hatred, but he does all of it so he can keep falling asleep at night holding onto a toy that makes sense to him. Innocent and pure.