This is written for the old Ozula prompt "I can't tell you what it really is. I can only tell you what it feels like." Bear with me.

It felt like love.

She knew it wasn't. She knew that it was only her sex appeal. She knew it was only that she was an early bloomer. It was that her soft breasts and elegant curves. It wasn't her mind, her thought or the love she so desperately wanted to offed.

It was sex.

It was when she was 13 and he came to her chambers.

"Daddy?" she whispered quietly into the darkness only to be met with the glow of his bright teeth. He swept like a cloud over to her and in a matter of minutes her innocence was gone. In those moments she was reduced to a sex toy, temporarily drenched in a pool of her own blood.

It was when she was 15 and she finally excepted her place.

It was an unwritten rule that she could not speak those words. Pedophile, rapist, love. The last one was the most important. She was not to say she loved him though deep in the black, twisted and distorted pit of her heart she believed she did. She believed that somehow those nightly visits that left her bruised on the outside if she did not comply and bruised on the inside when she gave it her all.

There, however, was one word he could use.

Whore. By day her name was Azula or daughter. But by night her name was whore, slut, harlot or whatever derogatory name he could shoot at her to illicit tears on the inside and smiled of sensual delight on the outside.

It felt by love.

And she would never say it wasn't.