Raising A Good Girl

By Rose Nichols

The Secret

The familiar sound of the front door opening and the accompanying jingle of keys brought a mixture of excitement and nervousness to Lily’s heart. Her father William had just returned from his day at the office, and she never knew what to expect from him. As she pulled some roasted vegetables from the oven, her mother let out a tiny, involuntary gasp. William’s footsteps were unhurried, deliberate, and they sent a chill up Lily’s bare arms. Her mother’s hands trembled on the salad tongs as she arranged arugula into a porcelain bowl.

Elizabeth’s cheeks blushed a feverish pink, a sly smile blooming across her lips. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and whispered, “Your daddy’s home,” as if it were a secret just for the two of them. Lily watched her mother’s posture change instantly: shoulders pinched back, chin lifted, a little half-twist in the hips as though she were being sculpted anew by the sound of his voice in the foyer.

William appeared in the doorway, a statue in business-casual: baby blue shirt, sleeves rolled, the day’s tie still knotted at his throat. He scanned the counter, then the stove, then the two women in their aprons. His gaze lingered on Lily, just long enough to make her shiver, then moved to Elizabeth, who beamed up at him like a schoolgirl caught passing a note.

“Dinner smells wonderful,” William said, voice silked with approval. He dropped his battered leather briefcase on the island and loosened his tie with a single finger. The movement was so clean, so practiced, Lily was certain he’d rehearsed it for years in boardrooms and family living rooms, always keeping the audience on edge.

Elizabeth set down the tongs with a clatter and crossed the kitchen with a hurriedness that made Lily’s cheeks flush with embarrassment, as if she were intruding on a moment meant for only adults. Her mother rose onto her tiptoes, her chubby frame pressing against William as she kissed him fervently, mouth open and fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. It was a kiss that felt too intimate for the bustling kitchen, where Lily stood rinsing roasted carrots in the sink, caught between fascination and discomfort. For a fleeting moment, Lily thought she might see tears in her mother’s eyes. Instead, Elizabeth released a small, needy whimper that seemed to resonate through the tiled floor beneath them. William’s hand found the back of her neck, his thumb gliding over her softened jawline as he kissed her again, deeper this time, while his other hand slid around to rest possessively below the small of her back, drawing her closer.

Lily looked away, her cheeks prickling with heat, and focused her attention on scraping sweet potato off the baking sheet. She tried not to listen to the kissing, but the sounds kept happening, wet and insistent, as if her parents were determined to swallow each other whole before dinner. Lily could see her mother’s back, the nervous flexing of her spine, the way she clung to William’s shoulders. Lily’s hands fumbled the spatula and left orange streaks on the countertop, but she didn’t dare interrupt.

After a long, syrupy pause, her father’s voice cut the silence again: “Have you been good today?” He was looking at Elizabeth but Lily felt the words stick to her skin, as if the question applied to the whole household.

“Yes, sir,” her mother whispered, and there was laughter in it, but also something a little desperate. Lily remembered when she’d asked her mother years ago why she addressed Daddy as Sir. Elizabeth had smiled in a way that wasn’t quite a smile, saying, “Some wives call their husbands darling, or baby. I just like calling him sir. It’s old-fashioned, isn’t it?” She’d ruffled Lily’s hair as if to erase the question from the air.

William smiled, the kind of smile that never softened his eyes. He released Elizabeth and stepped toward Lily. His eyes were colder now, more exacting. She swallowed, wiped her palms on her apron, and turned to meet him. Habit and anxiety compelled her to smile, and she summoned the brightest, most convincing one she could muster.

“Welcome home, Daddy,” she said. Her voice cracked at the last word.

William patted Lily’s shoulder, giving it an extra squeeze before drawing her in for a kiss—not the quick-press of lips from the old days, but something longer, a little too warm. She’d stopped being a child and started being something else, she could feel it in the way his hand paused on the side of her neck, thumb grazing her jaw the same way it had with her mother. She tried to keep smiling, but her lips quivered and her skin tingled under his palm. The smell of his aftershave and the faint tang of city air clung to his collar, mixed with a heat she didn’t want to recognize. When he pulled away, he stared at her, searching for… something. She hoped it wasn’t disappointment.

“Good girl,” he said, voice lower now, as if the words were only for her. “You set the table?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

She finished scraping the sheet and slipped the vegetables into a serving bowl, hands still trembling from the aftershock of William’s touch. She could feel him behind her, silently watching, and she wondered if he could see the blush threading up her neck. Her mother moved through the kitchen in a hush, desperate to please, clearing the slotted spoon for Lily before she even asked.

They ate together at the formal dining table, plates arranged with geometric precision, napkins crisp and standing at attention. William poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and let the bottle thud against the table, then filled Elizabeth’s wineglass halfway. Lily took water, as always, and the glass sweated in her hand.

William cut into his steak with surgical neatness, the knife gliding through the meat as if the blade were part of his hand. He chewed methodically, in total silence, until the first splash of whiskey hit his tongue. Only then did he bother to speak. “Dow dropped again,” he said, swirling the glass. “No one at the office saw it coming. Bunch of overpaid idiots chasing their own tails.”

Lily watched the muscles in his forearm bunch and release, the veins shifting under his sunburned skin. Why had she never noticed that before? Maybe she’d never looked for it. The hair there was lighter than the hair on his head, almost golden, and she couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to run her fingertip from wrist to elbow, just to see if it was as soft as it looked or if it would scratch. Her own arms were thin and pale beneath the overhead light, each tendon standing out like a little bridge. She followed her father’s movements with discreet glances, careful not to get caught, and found her gaze drawn again and again to the way his sleeves clung to his arms. When he reached for his glass, the muscle above his wrist flexed, pulling the fabric tight, and Lily’s breath hitched in her throat. It was hypnotic, the repetition: slice, chew, drink, wipe, all of it moving with a mechanical grace that made her own limbs feel clumsy and juvenile.

She tried to focus on her food, but the knife and fork slipped in her hands and the carrots scattered off the plate’s rim. Her mother didn’t seem to notice. Elizabeth watched William with the same open hunger she’d shown in the kitchen, eyes tracking every motion, every word. Sometimes her gaze would flick to Lily, as if checking that her daughter was paying attention, and Lily would snap upright and blink rapidly, as if summoned from a trance. She’d never get used to the tension of these dinners, the way everything seemed to orbit her father, electrons in a field of his making.

The meal itself was quiet. Lily managed to finish half her vegetables, pushing them into careful piles, and drank more water than her stomach could comfortably hold. The conversation remained one-sided, her mother humming assent or giggling at William’s every offhand remark, her own voice never rising above a tentative murmur. He had a way of punctuating the table with his voice, carving out the air so that nothing else could settle.

When the plates were empty, Elizabeth stacked them with trembling care, whisking them away to the kitchen. William finished the last of his whiskey and pressed his napkin to the corner of his mouth, dabbing a spot that wasn’t there. He looked at Lily for a long time, the silence ballooning between them until her hands turned cold. When he spoke, it was softly, as if inviting a secret.

“Clear your plate, Lily. And then get yourself ready for bed.”

She obeyed, scraping the leftovers into the garbage disposal and rinsing her dish with frantic precision. Her mother was already elbow-deep in soapsuds, humming under her breath, movements jittery and uneven. William stood behind Elizabeth, pressing his body close as she scrubbed; a silent, possessive gesture that made Lily want to close her eyes and disappear. Instead, she dried her plate and set it in its slot, then slipped down the hallway and retreated to her room.

Lily woke up parched, the residue of a dream already slipping away. The house was silent except for the metronome tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Lily blinked at the darkness, her mouth sandpaper dry, and sat up, squinting at the digital alarm glowing 1:04. She’d forgotten to close her curtains and the streetlamp’s orange haze stretched stripes across her bedsheets.

Her bladder ached, an insistent pressure that made her legs jitter under the covers. Lily slid out of bed, bare feet scuffing against the cold wood, and padded into the hallway. The doors to her parents’ room were half-latched, the space between them a seam emanating yellow light. She paused, instinct telling her to move quietly; any noise at this hour felt criminal, a trespass against the order of things.

As she edged down the hall, a sound pried through the gap in the door: a long, keening moan, muffled and wet, but more than a sob; something between pleading and pain. Footsteps, muffled but heavy, echoed behind it. Lily’s body flushed cold, then feverish, and she pressed against the wall, certain she would be caught. But the noises continued: a low, steady rumble, then sharp words she couldn’t quite make out. Was it an argument? A fight? Was her mother all right?

She tiptoed closer, just enough to peek through the slit between the white-painted doors. At first, she saw her mother on her hands and knees, face buried in the sheets, hair spilled loose and wild. Her father was behind her, one fist tangled in her hair, the other pressing her shoulder down with punishing force.

Lily’s breath caught. Her mother’s face was red and splotchy, the eyes so tightly shut they wrinkled the soft skin at her temples. Each time William’s hips drove forward, Elizabeth’s whole body jerked like it had been shocked. She was making a noise Lily had never heard before: half-cry, half-pant. When William grunted, it sounded like rage.

Lily’s first thought was that she’d caught her parents fighting, but then she saw her mother’s hands. Elizabeth’s fingers were clenched tight around the edge of the mattress, but she wasn’t trying to get away. She was holding on, white-knuckled, arms shaking. William gave another thrust and Elizabeth’s head dropped, mouth open wide like she was drowning.

Lily knew that she should look away, but something kept her gaze locked on the scene unfolding before her. She watched as William pulled her mother upright by the hair. She gasped, a noise both pained and pleading. William leaned in, his mouth pressed to Elizabeth’s ear, his breath loud and ragged. “You like that, don’t you?” he said, his voice thick and close. “You like being used, you filthy thing. My little toy.”

The sight punched something loose in Lily’s chest. She’d never seen her mother like this—so completely unguarded, so naked. Not just without clothes, but stripped of any shame or motherly composure. Elizabeth’s body was pale and soft all over, sweat sticking the hair to her shoulders and neck. Her breasts swung heavy, flushed at the tips and marked by William’s handprints, and they seemed impossibly large, veined and swollen as she swayed forward. Her mother’s stomach looked rounder than Lily remembered, a dimpled terrain of skin that rippled every time William slammed into her from behind.

There was something obscene about the way Elizabeth’s body shook and reacted, as if every part of her was built only for this. Lily’s own body felt foreign in comparison, thin and childish, recoil crawling up her spine, but something else too—a vibration in her thighs, a pulse in her hands that she didn’t recognize.

Elizabeth made a strangled, pleading noise. “Please, William,” she sobbed. “Please.” The words broke apart, half-swallowed by the pillow.

He yanked her head up again, exposing the length of her neck, the line of spit trailing from her mouth to the sheets. Lily’s own mouth hung open, and she caught herself, jaw snapping shut. Her skin crawled, but she couldn’t look away.

“You want to cum, little toy?” William’s tone had changed. It was the one he used when he was upset with Lily. “Then beg for it.”

Elizabeth’s answer was barely a word, just a wet, desperate keening. She arched her back, thighs trembling, tears streaking down to mingle with the sweat at her jaw. “Please, William,” she whispered again. “Please let me… please let me cum, I need it, I need it so bad, I’m—” Her voice hitched, broke, and she buried her face in the sheets.

William snorted, a sound half amusement and half disgust. “You need it? Hah. Listen to yourself, begging like a bitch in heat.” His hand slid from her hair to her mouth, fingers pushing between her lips, pinning her jaw open like she was something to be handled. “God, you’re even wetter than last time. Pathetic.”

William’s voice sank to a gravelly whisper. “You’re lucky I let you have anything at all.” He pushed harder, flesh slapping, sweat running down his sides in ribbons. “You don’t even deserve it.” William slammed forward, harder, and Elizabeth’s hips began to buck beneath him, erratic and involuntary. The mattress shook with each thrust, the bedsprings squealing, the whole bed frame edging closer to the wall in a lurching rhythm. Elizabeth’s legs splayed wider, her toes curling against the white sheets, and Lily’s toes curled in sympathy.

William’s hand suddenly whipped down between her Mommy’s thighs. The sound was obscene, a wet splat that echoed in the hallway, and Elizabeth shrieked, her body recoiling and then bucking forward with an animal desperation. Lily covered her mouth, pulse skittering.

William slapped her again, harder, right where their bodies met. Elizabeth’s whole body jerked; her voice cracked into a wail. “No,” William said, his tone flat and final, “Not unless I tell you, whore.”

He landed another smack, and another, each one landing with a sharper report and a flicker of recoil in Elizabeth’s hips. The rhythm changed, became meaner; now he was barely fucking, just holding and slapping her, making her beg in gasps and stuttering yelps.

William let go of her mother’s hair. Elizabeth slumped forward, arms collapsing, and William’s palm slammed her down flat against the mattress. He drove his hips forward once more, and her mother’s eyes flashed open.

For a second, everything went still, the only sound the throb of blood in Lily’s own ears. Elizabeth’s face turned, cheek mashed to the mattress, and her eyes, streaked with mascara and animal with need, locked onto Lily’s. Lily’s vision tunneled. Her own hand shot up to cover her mouth, but it was too late: Elizabeth’s eyes had found her, pale and glassy, and for an instant Lily saw in them a flare of horror, of shame, maybe even relief.

Lily stumbled back, heel catching on the frayed rug, banged her shoulder on the opposite wall. She slammed her hand against her own lips to keep from squealing. She didn’t dare look again. She turned and ran, bare feet slapping the cold wood, breath hitching in thin, ragged gulps.

She dove into her bed and curled up, knees to her chest. Her heart still raced, her skin prickled with sweat, and the warmth between her legs had bloomed into something urgent and relentless. Her hands were shaking, and her panties clung wetly to her thighs where something had soaked through the cotton. Her heart battered at her chest with such violence she thought it might break through, burst out and leave her emptied, a husk.

The house was silent again. Or, more precisely, the house was pretending to be silent. The walls still held a residue of her mother’s voice, the heavy echo of her father’s grunts and threats, the rhythm of bodies meeting and parting. Lily’s own body hummed with aftershocks. When she pressed her knees together, an electric ache zipped through her, sharp and unbearable. She tried to smother the feeling, clenching her fists so hard her fingernails bit little crescents into her palms. But it refused to die down. It only grew, a tide that pulled her deeper each time she tried to turn away.

She curled tighter, squeezing her eyes shut, willing herself to go numb. But even as she tried, her traitor mind replayed what she’d seen; her father’s enormous hands in her mother’s hair, the way Elizabeth had gasped and whimpered and pushed her body back into his, as though being held down was a kind of mercy.

Lily felt sick, dizzy, but also… curious. There was something about it that made her want to scream, or to touch, or to run out into the frozen field and let the night swallow her whole.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Her body moved without her permission: first her hand creeping up her stomach, then higher, tracing the new curve of her breast. Her fingers were cold at first, but her skin burned beneath them. She let them hover, barely brushing the nipple, then circled it with the tip of one finger. It stiffened, just like it had when she was in front of the mirror, but the sensation was a hundred times more intense now, as if her whole chest was a bell and someone had rung it.

She gasped, clamped her hand over her mouth, heart stuttering. It felt like she’d been starved for air, and now every inch of her skin was gulping it down.

She slid her hand down, pausing at the hem of her panties. For a moment she just lay there, fingers flexing, toes curled. The urge was overwhelming. It was a pressure at her core; a restless twitch that wouldn’t let her be. She pressed her palm between her thighs, shuddered at the heat and the wetness she found there. It was slippery, sticky, and she almost recoiled, almost leapt from the bed in horror, but curiosity kept her rooted.

She prodded the slippery spot, more out of bewilderment than intent, and for one terrifying second thought she might have peed herself. But it didn’t smell sour, it didn’t feel the way accidents used to when she was small. The wetness was warm, almost soothing, and it clung to her skin in a way that left her breathless. She pushed her palm more firmly into the seam where her thighs met, heat blooming from some secret place she’d never noticed before.

Her fingers slipped and skittered, searching for purchase. She tried to find the exact shape of the ache. Maybe she needed to press harder, or rub faster, or hold still and count to ten like her mother did, sometimes, when she was about to lose her temper. She pictured Elizabeth’s face, twisted and red, her mouth open and desperate, and the image made Lily’s hand jerk in surprise.

Her hand jerked, then stilled. She pressed her palm down again, harder this time, bracing for another surge. Something was coming; her muscles were tensing all at once, thighs squeezing tight, toes digging into the mattress. The ache was sharp and beautiful, a ripcord down her belly that left her gasping. Something was happening down there, something big and wild and maybe dangerous. She panicked, afraid she’d break herself if she didn’t stop, but the idea of pulling away was worse, like turning off a light and being left alone in the dark.

She kept going, wrist moving in tiny, frantic circles, breath hitching in her throat. Her eyes stung. She bit her knuckles, the taste of sweat and linen and iron from her own blood. She wanted to bury her face in the pillow and shriek, the way her mother had, but she didn’t dare.

She bit her knuckle to keep from crying out, but a low moan escaped anyway. It sounded nothing like her, nothing like the good girl she was supposed to be. She closed her eyes and saw only her mother’s face, slack with need, and her father’s voice, hard and merciless: You’re mine. Say it.

The pressure built, and built, and just as she felt herself about to burst, the door slammed open, flooding her bedroom with light and cold.

“Lily!” Her mother’s voice cut through the night.

Lily jerked upright, hands flying to her chest, face wet with sweat and tears. For a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. Elizabeth stood in the doorway, her thin nightgown clinging damply to her heavy curves, hair wild around her shoulders. Her eyes darted to Lily’s hands, then to the tangle of quilt and sheets, and her mouth twisted in an expression of disapproval, and something else.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Elizabeth whispered loudly, crossing the room in three strides.

Lily shrank away, heart hammering so loud she was certain her mother could hear it.

“I—I wasn’t—” she stammered, but the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t remember when she had seen her mother more upset. “Don’t you ever, ever touch yourself there,” her mother said in a sharp, parental tone. “You hear me?”

Lily burst into tears. “I’m sorry! Mama, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” The words poured out, soaked up by her mother’s shoulder as Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed and gathered Lily in a tight, doughy embrace. The smell of Elizabeth’s skin, sweaty and musky from her earlier exertions, flooded Lily’s nostrils. She pressed her hot, streaming face into her mother’s bosom, trying to will the rest of the world away.

Elizabeth rocked her, slow and steady, clutching Lily so close she almost couldn’t breathe. “Hush now, baby. Hush. I know it hurts.” She stroked Lily’s hair, the motions rougher than they’d ever been before, but not angry— not really. “It’s not your fault. You just have to be strong. Good girls don’t touch themselves there. Do you understand?” Her voice dissolved at the edges. “Do you?”

Lily nodded, but the ache was still there, thick between her thighs, buzzing in the ends of her fingers. “But I don’t know what to do when it… happens,” she said in a rush, before she could lose her nerve. “It feels like something’s wrong. It’s itchy. And… hot.”

Elizabeth’s grip tightened, squeezing Lily’s head against her chest so fiercely that Lily wondered if her mother might try to smother the badness out of her. Her mother’s words were ragged and wet, as if she’d bitten them in half before releasing them to the air. “It’s not a disease, Lily. It’s just your body telling you it wants what you saw Mommy and Daddy doing.” Her hand snaked up and down Lily’s hair, but her grip was too tight, fingernails scraping the scalp, not quite comforting but grounding in its discomfort. “But the feeling is not for you to handle alone. When it happens again, you don’t touch yourself, you come to me, and I’ll help you. Ok?”

Lily’s breath stuttered, caught between sobs and confusion. “Ok Mommy, I’m so sorry!” Her mother rocked her gently, the way she’d done when Lily was small and feverish, before the world had grown teeth. Lily clung, trembling, to the plush warmth of her mother’s body, each sob rippling through her, dissolving as Elizabeth shushed her and petted her hair. Lily’s face pressed into the damp, pillowy curve of her mother’s chest, every breath thick with the musky trace of her skin. The ache inside her was still there, shuddering and persistent, even as her mother’s arms wrapped around her, unyielding.

“Are you going to tell Daddy?” Lily whispered.

Elizabeth’s breath caught, then released in a long, trembling sigh. Her hand stroked Lily’s hair, slow and heavy. “I tell your father everything, baby. But he’ll understand.”