Chapter 15: The Deal

George was hung over, sore, and tired when his alarm woke him up at 6am. It wasn't until he got out of bed, finally, that he realized he was naked, and memories from the night before came swarming back. He couldn't help but smile when they did, too.

What a great idea it'd been to give the slut a taste of her own medicine. By the time he'd gotten back from bowling his little girl had been so bombarded with porn that her young mind had snapped. He'd been drunk, sure, but he could clearly remember how willing and eager she'd been to do everything he wanted. The fucking, the blowjob, the way she'd curled her tiny body up against his and fallen asleep with a smile on her face. The idea had been to teach her how to be a good slut, and he had succeeded beyond his wildest imagination.

After showering, George snuck into her room and watched her sleeping peacefully on her bed. She looked so innocent right now, naked and snuggled up under her pink covers. Only hours ago she hadn't behaved innocently at all.

She seemed surprised when he woke her up and told her she had to go to school. She didn't say much, but nodded and got out of bed and went to her dresser to pick out some clothes for the day. George was pleased to see that she made no effort to hide her nudity from him.

He followed her to the bathroom, which was still full of steam from the hot shower he'd just taken. She left the door open, another good sign. He watched her splash some cold water in her face and proceed to brush her teeth. He leaned against the doorframe as he observed her: she was so fucking gorgeous, he thought. Even at fourteen she had the body, grace, and beauty that could entice any man. It was a good thing he'd finally decided to control her, or she was going to end up in a lot of trouble. Shit, the little slut had already prostituted herself! What would have been next, group orgies? Drugs? Pregnancy?

Yeah, I'm gonna control this slut. Can't ask a slut to stop being a slut anymore than you can ask a dog to stop being a dog. But you can control them, he decided. You could train them. And he was going to do just that.

When Amy stepped into the bathtub and closed the shower curtain, George briefly considered watching, but ruled against it. It was early, he was hungover. He needed coffee if he was going to make it through work today.

About an hour later Amy came downstairs with her book bag, purse, and coat. She came into the kitchen and George looked up from his paper to examine her. She had a sort of blank expression on her youthful face, but other than that she appeared normal. She was wearing a pair of faded designer jeans with little stylish rips in it that had cuffs cropped up almost to her knees, exposing her calves and ankles. Her shirt was a soft, light white t-shirt that had a large picture of "Elmo" on the front—the shirt came down to just above the top of her pants, revealing the slightest bit of her firm, flat belly. Her hair was held back with a sort of sequined, lacy headband, which kept her long red hair pushed back revealing the entirety of her beautiful face. He noticed that the girl had applied some lip gloss to her soft lips, too, and that she'd sprinkled just a hint of makeup-glitter to her cheeks. She looked like a typical 14-year-old, fashion conscious girl. Memories of her lips wrapped around his stiff cock the night before flashed through his mind as he studied her, making him grin.

"Well," she said softly from across the way, "I guess I better get going."

She began to put on her leather coat when George stopped her. "No," he said. "I'll drive ya to school today. Sit down and have some breakfast or something. You didn't eat dinner."

She paused. "Uhm... you'll be late for work, though," she said meekly.

He gave her a hard, steeled glare. "You gonna start being defiant to me again?" he demanded. "Let me worry about work. Have some cereal."

George was pleased when he saw his daughter, whose instinct was definitely to keep arguing, slowly place her book bag on the floor and then walk over to the kitchen table. He knew it was best not to let her get away with anything: if he was to control her, he had to make sure she obeyed his every word. She had to know that nothing was up for discussion.

She put her purse on the table and slung her coat over the back of a chair, then proceeded to make herself a bowl of cereal. He watched as she went up on tippy-toes to reach a bowl from the top shelf of the cupboard, and couldn't help but admire her cute teenage butt. God must be a fucking genius, he thought in admiration.

He went back to his paper and sipped his coffee while Amy began to eat her breakfast. Realizing his coffee was almost gone he said, without looking up, "Pour me another cup, baby girl."

He didn't look to see if she obeyed. This was another test. Amy had never waited on anybody: it wasn't in her nature. Just how well had he broken her spirit the night before?

Pretty damned well. George forced himself not to grin when he heard her get up, go to the coffee maker, and then return to his side where she poured the hot liquid into his cup.

When she was sitting down again he put away the paper and said, "Alright, baby girl. Here's what's going on. You're gonna go to school today. You're gonna pay attention in your classes. You're gonna tell anyone who asks that you went home early yesterday 'cause of a family emergency. If they want details you tell 'em your former step-mom got into a car wreck.

"What you're not going to do," he said intently, "is tell anyone, not a soul, about what you did last night. Are we clear?"

"Yes," she whispered back.

He nodded. "Good. 'Cause you know, no one else would understand. They'd say I was a pervert, a rapist, or somthin'. They wouldn't understand that what I'm doing is for your own good. Do you know what they would do?"

Amy shook her head.

"They'd throw me in prison. I'd go to prison and you'd go into foster care. You'd end up going from foster-family to foster-family, and what's more, you'd still be an uncontrolled slut. You'd end up pregnant, diseased. You'd end up on the street giving blowjobs for drugs. You hear me?"

She nodded again.

"Alright then," he finished.

When his second cup of coffee was empty, it was time to go. He drove his daughter to school and marveled at what a wonderful fucking day it was. The weather was cold, but winter was finally breaking. The sky was clear and sunny. And he had his daughter completely under his sway. Nothing could ruin the happiness he felt, a happiness he hadn't felt in years, if ever.

Until he got to work, that is.

The current jobsite his crew was working on was an old, dilapidated mini-mall they were charged with demolishing. George always enjoyed demolition jobs, but this one was taking a longer than expected and some bureaucratic bullshit was getting in the way of the work. The site happened to be located across the street from an inner-city junior high school, and bleeding heart environmentalists were concerned that dropping the structure all at once might spew asbestos into the air, poisoning the young kids across the way. Of course, there was no asbestos in the building. Anyone who knew anything about construction knew this, but that didn't keep the liberals from demanding the site be taken apart piece by piece instead of all at once, just to be "on the safe side". It was bullshit.

As George pulled into the gravelly area reserved for the crew's parking he noticed his supervisor, the fat son of a bitch, leaning against a low brick wall and staring across the street. Classes were just beginning, George figured. That fatass was always staring at the schoolyard when classes were beginning or ending. Fucking pervert loved to stare at the young teenage colored girls in their slutty, hip hop outfits.

George climbed out of his truck and started making his way to the wall that should have come down days ago. His co-workers were already at work and the sound of heavy machinery and the smell of dust and broken concrete filled the air. He was late, maybe an hour, but it shouldn't be a big deal.

"TORCH!"

George tensed in anger at the sound of his boss' voice. He stopped and turned and sure enough the pervert had caught up to him.

"In my office NOW!" the red-faced piece of shit growled.

The "office" was actually a trailer set up for the lazy s.o.b.'s who supposedly oversaw the actual work. George followed his supervisor inside and saw the fat bastard walk around his desk, sit down, and glare.

"You're off this job, Torch," the round-faced asshole said. "You're off this job, you're off this crew, you're outta work. You hear me?!"

George's eyes went wide with anger. "What the fuck you talking about?" he demanded.

"I wrote you up," the little shit grinned. "Not just for that shit you pulled yesterday, neither. I've been writing you up for weeks, every time you've been late or left early or did a piss-poor job. Assaulting me was the final straw—even your fucking union won't stand behind that. You're out."

George rubbed his jaw. He was seeing red but there was nothing he could do about it. Fact was he'd completely forgotten about pushing his supervisor to the ground the day before—he'd been blind with rage at the time. If what the shit was saying was true, he wasn't going to have much to appeal on.

Even so he said defiantly, "I'm gonna challenge this shit. You hear me? Twenty years counts for something you son of a bitch! The union will demand—."

"They're not going to demand shit," the round tub of lard grinned triumphantly. "I've got witnesses: you assaulted me. I got reports going back for months of your slacking. I have a paper-trail and evidence that I've played this all by the book. What have you got? Huh? What do you got?"

Visions of bankruptcy filled George's head. There was no way a 50-something, uneducated 'vet like him could find work paying anything close to this job. He wouldn't even receive unemployment: the great state of Ohio would say he was fired with cause. He had some money saved, sure, but how long could it last? Shit, the slow winter months had already taken their strain on his savings. Spring was near, work would pick up, he'd be all right again if he could just work through it. Maybe an early retirement could follow.

"Listen," George forced himself to say, hating the sound of defeat in his voice, "I fucked up. I've had family issues, see? Just give me a few more months and I'll--".

"I don't give a rat's ass about your 'family issues'!" the smug little shit grinned. "You've been a pain in my ass since I took over supervising this crew, and now you're gonna pay for it. I don't want you here, Torch. Now get the fuck out and go home."