Mark hoped that the rest of the day might proceed normally. Fetching a fresh mug of coffee, he moved to the living room and sat with a book in his leather armchair. He soon found himself lost in thought, and did not read a word.

 

After finding something else to eat for breakfast, Sophia padded into the living room as well. She curled up on the couch, and pulled her knees up to her chest, staring into the middle distance. Whenever Mark coughed or shifted in his seat, she would jerk to attention, as if bracing for a command. The room was filled with a species of silence that Mark was not used to living with.

 

After a half hour of this, Mark set his coffee down and cleared his throat. “I was thinking,” he began, “maybe we should see someone.”

 

A flash of fear twisted Sophia’s face. “No. Please,” She answered in a small voice.

 

Mark held up both hands in apology. “I mean, maybe there’s a specialist; someone who knows about this kind of thing. A psychologist, or some kind of therapy…” He had no idea if there was even a cure for whatever had happened to Sophia, but he had to try something.

 

Sophia shook her head violently. “No doctors. No lab coats. No white rooms.” she said, her voice trembling on the edge of remembered terror. “Please, Daddy. Please.”

 

He saw then that she was on the verge of tears again, the raw panic rolling off her in sheets. Mark made a mental facepalm. “Okay. No doctors. We’ll figure it out on our own. I’m retired now, so I’ve got all the time in the world to help you.”

 

The look of relief on Sophia’s face was obvious to Mark, so he tried another approach. “How about we just try… normal stuff,” he said. “Whatever you want. We could watch a movie, play board games, or just talk. You can practice being a regular person again.”

 

Sophia’s eyes brightened at the idea. “Do you really think that would help?” She asked.

 

“I’m not sure, but it’s worth a shot,” Mark replied honestly. “What do you want to do today, Soph?”

 

There was a long pause, a visible calculation in the way Sophia’s mouth worked around the question. She seemed to be searching for the right thing to say, as if the wrong one would bring punishment and pain. Finally, in a tentative voice, she asked, “What I want?”

 

“Of course! You can pick. Anything.”

 

It had been so long since Sophia had been given any agency in her daily life. After another pause, she came to a depressing answer. “I don’t know,” she admitted in confusion. “I don’t know what I want.”

 

“That’s okay,” Mark replied, trying to stay positive. “How about I beat your ass at chess like I used to? It’s been too long since we last played.”

 

Sophia’s cheeks turned red at his phrasing, but still let out a small giggle. “You must be getting dementia, old man! I always win at chess.”

 

Mark stood up and walked to the bookshelf, pulling the chess set down from where it had lain untouched for years. He grinned at Sophia, keeping the banter going. “Oh that’s right! I forgot that I always let you win, since you’re such a sore loser.”

 

Sophia started setting up the chess set. “Am not! You just don’t think far enough ahead; that’s why you always lose!”

 

“We’ll see about that, young lady!” With the game ready, Mark made the first move with a white piece to the center of the board. “Who dares challenge my pawn? Step forth!”

 

Sophia said nothing. Mark’s grin faded from his face, and he saw Sophia’s eyes flicking from piece to piece. Sophia’s hand hovered above the pieces, trembling faintly. She still knew the rules of the game, but she couldn’t make a move.

 

Her breath started coming more quickly. Why couldn’t she pick up a piece?

 

Mark watched in confusion at what was playing out before him. “Your move, Soph,” he prompted.

 

The words tripped a cascade of panic. “Yes, Daddy!” Sophia’s hand trembled, still hovering above the pawns. Sweat burst along her brow, and she let out a high, animal whimper as her fingertips grazed the cool plastic. She could not move it. Her brain screamed at her body to just grab the piece and put it down, but the command stopped at the wrist like a roadblock. Sophia started hyperventilating; she could not even twitch a pawn without explicit direction. She was a passenger in her own meat, helpless save for the hot, sick pulse between her legs.

 

“Which piece do I move?” she blurted, her voice louder than intended. “What’s the right move, Daddy?”

 

Mark instantly regretted not thinking this through. Sophia’s eyes were wide and pleading as she waited for instructions, and Mark quickly moved to hold her.

 

“Shhh, it’s alright, baby. You’re okay.” He wrapped his arms around her and tried to make her feel safe. Sophia instinctively nuzzled against Mark’s flannel-covered chest, inhaling deeply. He smelled like whiskey and firewood. He smelled like a man, and she clawed at his shirt and squeezed her thighs together instinctively. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” she whispered into his chest.

 

Mark rocked her gently, trying not to notice the rigid press of her nipples against his arm, or the way she seemed to melt and harden at the same time in his grip. He squeezed her shoulders, then let go, and made his voice calm and measured. “Sophia. It’s all right. There’s no wrong move. You can play however you want.” He reached over and nudged a black pawn forward himself, making the choice for her.

 

The effect was immediate. The tension in Sophia’s shoulders vanished, and she exhaled in a rush, relief flooding her body. She looked up with her clear blue eyes, and smiled adoringly at her father. Mark gave a hollow smile in return, and sighed heavily, frustrated at the outcome of the game.

 

“Maybe we’ll skip chess for now, Soph.”

 

 

---

 

 

Mark waited until Sophia had righted herself and her breath had steadied before speaking again. “How about you give me a hand with some chores? This place is a disaster.”

 

Sophia perked up at once, the flash of new purpose overriding her residual embarrassment. “Of course! What should I do?” Her voice was bright and eager, as if she were a child again, desperate for a gold star.

 

Mark allowed himself a moment to appreciate her enthusiasm, even as the context made his stomach sour. He used to have to bribe her to take out the garbage; now she was practically vibrating with anticipation. “Let’s start simple,” he said. “You can sweep the living room; the broom’s in the closet by the kitchen.”

 

Darting to her feet, Sophia padded off toward the kitchen, her exaggerated curves jostling with every step, and was back in seconds with the broom. She moved with a quick, mechanical efficiency, clearly relishing the task. Mark moved to the kitchen, not wanting to dwell on this new side of his daughter. He opened the dishwasher, intent on emptying it before the stack of plates in the sink grew insurmountable. He was only three cups deep when Sophia appeared at his elbow, hands fluttering with an anxious energy.

 

“I can do that for you,” she said, her words tumbling out in a rush.

 

“It’s fine, Soph. I’ve got this.”

 

But she hovered, arms tensed awkwardly at her sides, as if waiting for a more direct answer. Her gaze flickered from Mark’s face to the half-full dishwasher to the broom she’d left propped against the fridge. “I should be the one cleaning up.” There was a tremor in her voice. “That’s my job.”

 

Mark clenched his jaw. “Sophia. You don’t have a job here, baby. You’re not a maid or anything like that. You just live here, like you used to.”

 

She flinched, the wordless instinct to self-flagellate tripping her into a small, frantic bow. “Sorry, Daddy! You’re right. I’ll just… sweep the living room,” she said, and retreated from the kitchen. Mark watched her unconscious submission, realizing how much he’d already failed her without even trying.

 

The rest of the day unfolded in uneasy intervals. Sophia swept every corner of the house, her diligence bordering on obsessive. Dust bunnies cowered beneath the couch until she rooted them out; stray crumbs vanished from the baseboards. Her movements were methodical and efficient, but whenever Mark walked by, he noticed her posture would shift, breath catching, hips twisting, lips parting slightly. At first Mark dismissed it as fatigue, or nerves, but as he passed her again on his way to his office, he noticed a peculiar smell; sweet and musky, and vaguely familiar.

 

As he collected half empty cups from his desk, he tried to place it. It wasn't perfume; Sophia never wore perfume, not even in high school, when the other girls doused themselves in cloying floral clouds. The scent tugged at some old, animal part of his brain, and for a beat he was lost in the memory of his late wife, the way she would press herself against him at the end of the day, the way her sweat would mingle with the heady perfume of arousal. The memory flashed, unwanted, and he recoiled.

 

 

He braced himself against his desk and squeezed his eyes shut. What had happened to his daughter? He had to find a way to fix this.

 

Returning to the kitchen with his arms full of dirty dishes, he found Sophia on all fours in the hallway, scrubbing at a stain with an old washcloth. With each motion, the hem of her shirt would rise, bunching around her ribs, briefly exposing the undercurve of her swollen breasts. Then he saw the dark bloom spreading between her legs, the fabric at her crotch turning two shades darker as the shorts wicked up her fluids. For a moment Mark thought she’d pissed herself, but it was too viscous. The moisture outlined her sex in perfect, obscene detail. Every plush fold, every cleft and contour, every shadow of her labia was glued to the fabric so closely that Mark could see it as clearly as if she were naked.

 

The realization made him dizzy. His daughter was leaking.

 

She didn’t seem to notice, and Mark didn’t dare to bring it to her attention. Eventually, the house was as clean as Sophia could make it, and Mark called her into the kitchen to help prep dinner.

 

Cooking actually went fairly well, to Mark’s pleasant surprise. He chopped vegetables while Sophia read aloud the recipe, meticulous in her measurements, careful to check each instruction twice. Sophia kept a running tally of ingredients, her hands always in motion, fetching salt or flour or a fresh paper towel before Mark finished asking. She smiled when the first pan began to sizzle, and for a few moments, father and daughter were just two people cooking together on a rainy Saturday. Mark found himself relaxing; the kitchen felt less like a crash site and more like the beating heart of a home.

 

 

Sophia attacked the meal with a hungry precision Mark had not seen since she was a growing teenager. She chewed thoughtfully, and when she finished a mouthful, she dabbed the corners of her mouth and folded her hands on her lap. Mark realized, with a hot flush of embarrassment, that he was waiting for her to do something strange or animalistic, but there was only calm, focused eating.

 

Maybe this could work, Mark thought. If they just kept doing normal things, if he modeled being a regular person for Sophia, maybe she could find herself again.

 

"You seem a bit more yourself tonight," Mark said, choosing his words carefully. "Is the practice helping, do you think? Doing normal things?"

 

Sophia looked down at her plate. “I don’t know,” she said. “It helps to have something to do. Even if it’s silly, or small.”

 

Mark nodded, uncertain how to offer more encouragement in the face of her caution.

 

When dinner was over, Mark got up to do the dishes. Sophia, realizing where he was going, immediately asked if she could do them instead. Mark decided to pick his battles this time, and let her win this one. Sophia started washing the plates, and Mark moved to his armchair with a glass of whiskey and an old paperback. He felt like he should give his daughter some space after such a rough day.

 

As he continued his book, Mark listened to the domestic sounds of clinking plates and running water from the kitchen. It almost felt normal, and he could almost believe the house contained a functioning family again. He closed his eyes, book forgotten, and drifted into a nap.

 

 

---

 

 

When he woke up a half hour later, something had changed. He pondered for a minute, and then realized that the kitchen sounds had stopped. Mark glanced at the doorway, alarmed first by the stillness and then by the fact that Sophia had not emerged. Then, from the kitchen, he heard a faint, high whimper.

 

Standing up, Mark walked toward the kitchen to make sure Sophia was alright. The sounds became clearer as he approached; a rhythmic squelching sound layered over the moans. He stopped at the threshold, his hand hovering over the doorframe, afraid of what he might find.

 

Sophia was sitting on the floor with her back to the sink, legs drawn up and spread, shorts and panties strewn across the tile floor. One hand was buried between her thighs, working in frantic, spastic jerks; the other was clamped over her mouth, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle the pathetic whimpers. Her face was flushed, eyes red and glassy, and tears leaked down her cheeks in twin tracks.

 

He watched, paralyzed by shock, as Sophia’s hand worked with increasing desperation. Sophia’s fingers plunged in and out of her slit with a violence that spoke of months of frustration. Her palm smeared the slick all over her mound, her knuckles shining with mucus-like strings that stretched and broke with each frantic thrust. The room echoed with the slap of palm on flesh, the wet squelch of juices, the mewling whines that spiraled up in pitch as she chased her need.

 

When she finally noticed Mark in the doorway, she didn’t stop. Instead, she looked directly at him, the panic in her eyes softened by a plea for mercy. “I couldn’t help it,” she choked out, her breath hitching around the words. “I can’t stop it. And I can’t—” Her voice broke completely. “I can’t cum! I can’t! They won’t let me!”

 

The hand between her legs stuttered, then pressed harder, fingers shaking. Sophia sobbed, the sound raw and animal, then slumped onto the floor in a fetal position. Her whole body trembled, the violence of the effort leaving her limp and spent. She curled in on herself, eyes shut tight as if refusing the horror of her own body’s betrayal, apologizing through her tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

 

Mark finally snapped out of it, and he rushed over to her side to comfort her. Kneeling beside her half-naked body, he grabbed her shoulders and tried to find the right words.

 

“Sophia. It’s okay. You’re not in trouble. You don’t have to be ashamed.” He gathered her up into his arms, and pulled Sophia’s hand out from where it was still stuck between her legs. Mark cringed at the horrible sucking sound, and the strings of her arousal that broke and spattered his forearm. It didn’t matter. His daughter needed him.

 

She whimpered again as he did so, and then burrowed her face into his chest, fingers clawing the fabric of his shirt, and Mark felt her heart thundering through both their ribs. He carried her to the living room, settling onto the old couch with Sophia curled in his arms. Her bare ass was naked and squirming against his lap, and her whole body trembled with little spasms. He shushed her, murmuring softly to her, the way he’d done when she was a feverish child.

 

“It’s okay baby, it’s alright. Daddy’s got you.” He tried to calm her, hoping desperately that she couldn’t feel his throbbing erection through his pants. Sophia’s tears soaked his shirt as she hyperventilated, still apologizing between gulps of air. The shame and panic started to bleed out of her, replaced by a bruised exhaustion.

 

When her breathing finally slowed, she lay limp against him, eyes squeezed shut, her cheek mashed into his collarbone. Mark tucked her hair behind her ear and let his hand rest in the space between her shoulder blades, attempting to broadcast only the calm, platonic care she needed.

 

After sitting with Sophia for some time, he noticed that she had fallen asleep. Mark carefully stood up, maneuvering her so she was facing him with her head lolling on his shoulder, and took her up the stairs. She felt so small in his arms, even after all these years. He tried to ignore the way her skin squished slick against his forearms, or the way the soft, smooth flesh of her ass jiggled as he adjusted her weight. Her shorts and panties, abandoned in the kitchen, had left her exposed, and as Mark mounted the stairs, a hot stripe of Sophia’s arousal traced down his arm to the crook of his elbow.

 

Upon reaching the top, he shouldered open the door to her childhood room, but stopped short at the sight of the dog bed in the corner. No. Not tonight. She deserved better than to sleep on the floor again.

 

Instead, trying not to think about it too much, he turned around and carried her to his own bedroom. He laid Sophia down as gently as he could, untangling her limp limbs from his grip, and drew the comforter up to her chin.

 

He lingered for a moment at the side of the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. The sight of his daughter, her face slack and peaceful at last, should have brought solace. Instead it filled him with something that hovered between grief and rage.

He thought about going downstairs and pouring another drink, but the idea of leaving her alone felt wrong, given the terrible end to the day. He quietly undressed down to his boxers, and climbed into the other side of the bed.

 

Sleep did not come easy. He lay on his back, staring at the knots in the wood paneling on the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Sophia’s breathing and his own thundering pulse. So many thoughts kept running through his head. He tried to imagine a world where things returned to normal, a world in which Sophia’s conditioning could be cured, but Mark was not a man accustomed to optimism. Eventually, however, exhaustion took him as well, and he slept.