4. Niccolo
4MonthsBefore
Goddid not allow CaterinaLucatello and me to have children before she passed. Every day, I thank Him for that. My stepdaughter is more than enough for me to handle.
Christineis having a panic attack. “I can’t fit into my dress. Nic! Nic!” She yells as she steps out of her bedroom and into the hallway. “Niccolo!” Her voice echoes through the house, and I consider getting up and locking my bedroom door. “I need you to zip me up!”
Myhead rings with pain as a migraine forms behind my right eye. A gnawing sensation spreads from the back of my skull and down through my neck. I get up from my bed to search for meds. As soon as I stand, the room starts spinning, and I find myself leaning against the wall for support.
Mystepdaughter bursts into the room a few moments later. Her face is flushed as she rushes in, the billowing skirt of her bright pink prom dress held up by one hand.
“Niccolo. I can’t fit into my dress. I need you to squeeze me into it and probably cut me out of it later.” It”s a demand, and I can”t handle demands right now.
Iwalk past her to my bathroom. Behind the mirror is a medicine cabinet with four containers: allergy pills, Tylenol, Rizatriptan, and Nurtec. The last two are for my migraines, and I dry swallow one before letting the other melt under my tongue.
“Hello?” Christine storms into the bathroom behind me. “Did you hear me?”
Paincasts a shadow on my mood. Usually, I would love to see my stepdaughter traipsing around in a half opened dress, an invitation for me to chase and pin her to the ground for its removal. But right now, her voice sounds shrill, and every fiber of my being is screaming at me to put in earplugs. “Please, keep it down, Chris.”
Sheturns, holding onto the door frame to steady herself as she presents her back to me. Christine leans forward, and I can almost feel the curve of her hips resting in my hands. “Zip. Me. Up.”
Ondays like today, I don’t remember why I accepted responsibility for Christine after her mother’s death. It’s the pain talking, the little voice in my head reminds me, you love her.
Ifumble with Christine’s zipper, but she’s right; the dress no longer fits her. The fabric puckers and bunches to let her breathe. “I don’t know if this is going to work.”
“Make it work,” she responds between clenched teeth. “I don’t have any other options, and Kaye is going to be here in an hour!”
Ilike her best friend; they keep each other grounded. I wish Kaye were here right now to deal with Christine”s outburst. “IfI get this zipped up, you aren’t going to be comfortable. Why don’t you—”
Christinesnaps her head in my direction with a look of indignation. “I don’t care if I can’t breathe once you get it zipped up. I’m fitting into this dress, Nic.”
Thelittle voice in my head says to remember that she’s still a selfish teenage girl. Yes, she turned eighteen a couple of weeks ago. Yes, technically, she’s an adult. But she is still, at her core, a selfish child. “Mind your tone, Christine,” I warn her.
Shetaunts me instead. “Or what? What are you going to do?”
Mypalm twitches in an inappropriate way. “If you’re going to be a brat, you can wait for Kaye to get here and help you. I have a headache and—”
“AllI’m asking is that you zip up the dress. It isn’t that big of a deal. Just do it, and I’ll leave you alone.” Perhaps she has a point, though her tone is grating on my nerves.
Iwork the zipper while she clings to the door frame. Every inch of progress draws the fabric tighter around her chest. It takes a minute, but the zipper gets halfway up before finally gliding the rest of the way to the top.
Whenshe turns around to face me, I get an eyeful of cleavage. The corset-style top cinches her breasts together into a delicious view.
“Thank you,” she says with faux sweetness in her tone. “Even though you acted like a real ass about it.”
“Hey!” I call after Christine as she turns to leave the bathroom. “You needed my help, not the other way around. You could try being thankful without the attitude.”
Shesnorts in derision and sweeps away from me. “And you could try being a nicer stepfather. But until then, neither of us will get what we want.”
I’mdriven by anger, frustration, and pain—a myriad of emotions and sensations that power me forward before common sense can kick in to stop me. I grab Christine’s wrist and pull her back before she leaves. “Apologize,” I hold her tightly, “now.”
Insteadof apologizing, a small smile plays on her lips as she says, “Make me.”
Idon’t always take my fatherly responsibilities seriously, but my actions are a reflex to the disrespect. My patience snaps like a twig, and I drag Christine across the room, pressing her face-first into the bed. With one hand on the small of her back, I bring the other down on her ass. The blow is cushioned by the prom dress’ thick material, but it’s a jarring action that catches Christine off guard.
Witha small shriek, she glares over her shoulder. “What are you doing?” She demands.
Iapply another stroke to her other cheek, feeling my pants tighten and my head throb in disagreement. “If you’re going to act like a child, you’ll be punished like a child.”
Christine’sjaw drops, but before she can respond, I spank her again. I feel the curve of her bottom with each slap, and I struggle internally with how to proceed. Part of me wants to keep going until she apologizes. Another part of me knows that if I do this much longer, I’ll flip up her skirt and forget that I was once married to her mother.
Ionly give her another couple of swats, enough to warm her backside and fuel fantasies that will never happen. ThenI pull away from her, letting her get to her feet.
“How dare you!” She roars as she stands up, hands immediately reaching behind her to rub her ass. “I’m going to tell,” but Christine stops mid-sentence because who is she going to tell? I’m her legal guardian. She has two uncles who might be interested in hearing what I did to her, but it wasn’t illegal.
“Enjoy your sore ass at prom, dolcezza.” I point toward the door. “Now get out.”
Christineflounders over what to say next. Her mouth opens and shuts like she’s gasping for air. When she can’t find the right words to say, she stomps out of my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
Imight have fucked up by spanking her, but it improved my mood. My head feels a little lighter, but maybe that’s the meds talking.