DeliciousMaiden
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2002
- Posts
- 15,258
Samantha Warrington
“Jesus Sammie… you look like a hooker in that damn thing!”
The childhood endearment, coupled with the harsh comment cut through Samantha, but she schooled her expression and feigned incomprehension.
“In this daddy?”
She asked sweetly, matching his angry tones with a calm response, knowing she would infuriate him more.
“For God’s sake Samantha, we’re supposed to be a wholesome picture of family life, you’re supposed to be a doting daughter, not a fucking call girl!”
Samantha’s eyes narrowed.
“.. and that would make you the “doting” daddy then would it..?”
Her tone was soft and steely as she retaliated.
“… my we are play acting tonight aren’t we?”
James Warrington sighed in exasperation.
He knew he’d lost his temper with her again, but he knew she was deliberately provoking him.
She seemed to grow more infuriating, more rebellious by the day.
At 21, she seemed so much worse that she had in her early teens when most kids go off the rails.
“Sam… ”
He spoke now in reasonable tones, knowing anger would get him nowhere with her.
“Please go and change. We have ten minutes then the car will be here.”
She hid her reaction. She hated his measured politeness.
It made him seem even more distant than he already was.
She would never tell him so, however and matched his tone with the equal formality.
“Anything you say, daddy…”
Then she belied her reasonable reply by turning and flouncing off back up the stairs.
Turning into her bedroom, one of a suite of rooms she occupied in the vast house, she unzipped the dress that clung precariously to her rounded breasts and let it fall to the floor.
Though costly, she kicked the garment out of the way and moved to her closet to select a more appropriate dress, the one she already knew she would wear to this evening’s function.
She had known full well that the first dress, which was now lying forlornly discarded on the floor, would be rejected.
She smiled smugly and refused to feel remorse at her father’s anger.
She slipped into the “appropriate” dress; a shift dress with a layer of closely patterned black lace as the top layer, set off by a shocking pink material lining beneath it.
The dress was formal and ran from neckline to just above the knee.
It was classy, but youthful, the pink glimpsed subtly through the dense woven pattern topping it. The fabric clung flatteringly to her curves without being obvious.
Had she admitted it, this was actually much more her style, but she couldn’t let her father know that.
Sighing, she pulled out a black wrap and looked at herself in the mirror and grimaced.
Many considered Samantha Warrington a spoiled and ungrateful bitch.
She portrayed that image, worked on perfecting it.
She treated the people who had the misfortune to be around her with abominable rudeness and let no one close to her, not even her so-called friends.
Samantha’s mother had died years before, just after her 17th birthday;
a tragic car crash, which had left them both bereft and trapped in their separate worlds where they co-existed, but never communicated.
Samantha gave the impression of being confident and gregarious, but she lacked the security that had been present in her earlier life.
Sam’s mother had been the cement, which held the small family together, the balm to salve the hotheaded stubbornness of both father and daughter and lead them to a shared middle ground.
With her gone, so was the harmony of the household.
James Warrington could not understand his daughter’s behaviour, much less control it.
To Samantha it seemed that her father did not care about her conduct, no matter how badly she played up, unless, of course, she was being called upon to boost his “public image”.
Tonight was one of those nights:
A night when she was to be given an outing in his company.
She knew she would be paraded as the “first lady” in her daddy’s life.
She knew what to say, how to act, she had been trained to behave in public from the age of 17, even the funeral had seemed to her a massive publicity stunt.
Samantha turned away, annoyed with herself for letting her mind revisit that once more.
She gracefully descended the stairs to where her father still awaited her exactly as the car drew up.
Her father beamed his approval, but merely said stiltedly.
”Much better, Samantha..”
Taking her arm formally, James Warrington moved through the now opened door and down the steps of his vast residence.
Samantha’s eyes flashed with anger.
Anger was a safer emotion than feeling rejected by her father’s lack of affection and praise…
OOC:
Samantha Warrington, made up and ready to attend her father's function.
5ft 6, blonde shoulder length hair, blue eyes
slim - figured - well toned - flat stomach and small waist
with curvaceous hips and 36C bosom.
slender hourglass shape...
“Jesus Sammie… you look like a hooker in that damn thing!”
The childhood endearment, coupled with the harsh comment cut through Samantha, but she schooled her expression and feigned incomprehension.
“In this daddy?”
She asked sweetly, matching his angry tones with a calm response, knowing she would infuriate him more.
“For God’s sake Samantha, we’re supposed to be a wholesome picture of family life, you’re supposed to be a doting daughter, not a fucking call girl!”
Samantha’s eyes narrowed.
“.. and that would make you the “doting” daddy then would it..?”
Her tone was soft and steely as she retaliated.
“… my we are play acting tonight aren’t we?”
James Warrington sighed in exasperation.
He knew he’d lost his temper with her again, but he knew she was deliberately provoking him.
She seemed to grow more infuriating, more rebellious by the day.
At 21, she seemed so much worse that she had in her early teens when most kids go off the rails.
“Sam… ”
He spoke now in reasonable tones, knowing anger would get him nowhere with her.
“Please go and change. We have ten minutes then the car will be here.”
She hid her reaction. She hated his measured politeness.
It made him seem even more distant than he already was.
She would never tell him so, however and matched his tone with the equal formality.
“Anything you say, daddy…”
Then she belied her reasonable reply by turning and flouncing off back up the stairs.
Turning into her bedroom, one of a suite of rooms she occupied in the vast house, she unzipped the dress that clung precariously to her rounded breasts and let it fall to the floor.
Though costly, she kicked the garment out of the way and moved to her closet to select a more appropriate dress, the one she already knew she would wear to this evening’s function.
She had known full well that the first dress, which was now lying forlornly discarded on the floor, would be rejected.
She smiled smugly and refused to feel remorse at her father’s anger.
She slipped into the “appropriate” dress; a shift dress with a layer of closely patterned black lace as the top layer, set off by a shocking pink material lining beneath it.
The dress was formal and ran from neckline to just above the knee.
It was classy, but youthful, the pink glimpsed subtly through the dense woven pattern topping it. The fabric clung flatteringly to her curves without being obvious.
Had she admitted it, this was actually much more her style, but she couldn’t let her father know that.
Sighing, she pulled out a black wrap and looked at herself in the mirror and grimaced.
Many considered Samantha Warrington a spoiled and ungrateful bitch.
She portrayed that image, worked on perfecting it.
She treated the people who had the misfortune to be around her with abominable rudeness and let no one close to her, not even her so-called friends.
Samantha’s mother had died years before, just after her 17th birthday;
a tragic car crash, which had left them both bereft and trapped in their separate worlds where they co-existed, but never communicated.
Samantha gave the impression of being confident and gregarious, but she lacked the security that had been present in her earlier life.
Sam’s mother had been the cement, which held the small family together, the balm to salve the hotheaded stubbornness of both father and daughter and lead them to a shared middle ground.
With her gone, so was the harmony of the household.
James Warrington could not understand his daughter’s behaviour, much less control it.
To Samantha it seemed that her father did not care about her conduct, no matter how badly she played up, unless, of course, she was being called upon to boost his “public image”.
Tonight was one of those nights:
A night when she was to be given an outing in his company.
She knew she would be paraded as the “first lady” in her daddy’s life.
She knew what to say, how to act, she had been trained to behave in public from the age of 17, even the funeral had seemed to her a massive publicity stunt.
Samantha turned away, annoyed with herself for letting her mind revisit that once more.
She gracefully descended the stairs to where her father still awaited her exactly as the car drew up.
Her father beamed his approval, but merely said stiltedly.
”Much better, Samantha..”
Taking her arm formally, James Warrington moved through the now opened door and down the steps of his vast residence.
Samantha’s eyes flashed with anger.
Anger was a safer emotion than feeling rejected by her father’s lack of affection and praise…
OOC:
Samantha Warrington, made up and ready to attend her father's function.
5ft 6, blonde shoulder length hair, blue eyes
slim - figured - well toned - flat stomach and small waist
with curvaceous hips and 36C bosom.
slender hourglass shape...
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