We don’t go straight home.

Daddy drives past our exit and keeps going along the dark highway. The grocery bags sit in the trunk. My dress is still stuck to the dried cum on my stomach. His hand rests high on my bare thigh under the fabric, two fingers occasionally sliding higher just to check how wet I still am.

“We’re not done,” he says. “Not until I say we are.”

He takes the next exit and turns onto a service road that runs behind a row of closed warehouses. No cameras. No other cars. He parks between two large trucks that block us from the road, kills the engine,...