Prologue

October 2013

My stepdaughter, Dom, is a bitch. I don’t mean to be rude, but there is simply no other word for her. She’s five foot eleven of big-boobed, wide-hipped, blue-eyed, blonde-haired nineteen-year-old bitchiness.

She’s gorgeous and she knows it—which just adds to the whole bitch thing, you know?

She wasn’t always like this. When I met her mother, Emma, Dom was a sweet little fourteen-year-old who didn’t show any signs of blossoming into the stunning beauty she’d eventually become. Or any signs of just what a bitch she’d turn out to be.

Okay, maybe I’m getting ahead of things. Perhaps I should back the fuck up a bit. Cast your mind back about five years ago. To September 2008. The bottom had fallen out of the Sub-Prime market, Lehman Brothers had filed for bankruptcy and Iceland’s three largest banks had collapsed. Unfortunately for me, I worked for the London subsidiary of one of them.

You won’t be surprised to hear that I suddenly found myself in need of alternative employment. I ended up taking a job for less than half what I had been earning, out in the provincial south-coast town of Westmouth. And there was no way on God’s Green Earth that my Trophy Wife of ten years was going to follow me in moving out of the capital. Instead, the little bitch found herself a sugar-daddy twice her age who’d somehow managed to profit from The Crash rather than suffer from it. And he was willing to fund her lifestyle for a weekly blowjob or two.

In fairness though, her blowjobs were one of the main reasons, if not the main reason, that I’d married the crazy bitch in the first place, so I really couldn’t blame him.

Her? Yes, I’d blame her. Twisted, ungrateful, money-grabbing little—Sorry, got sidetracked.

The point is, I found myself living in a smart little apartment overlooking Westmouth Bay, instead of a penthouse on the banks of the Thames, doing a job that didn’t challenge me in the slightest and earning a fraction of what I once did. And as nice as Westmouth was, I knew absolutely no-one outside of the office, most of whom were married with kids (and those that weren’t ... Well, let’s say there’s a reason they weren’t and leave it at that). Most of the bars in the town were full of students, not middle-aged divorcees, so I’d look somewhat out of place there. And let’s face facts here, as much as I’d be happy banging a hot young student or two, the likelihood of that ever happening was pretty damn remote. Even if I was still able to flash more than enough cash to impress most of them. Just not quite as much I once had though.

So I turned to internet-dating and after six failed encounters (by which I mean six disappointingly lousy fumbles back at her place after less than inspiring dinner conversation), I found myself sitting opposite Emma—a lovely looking auburn-brunette—and being completely charmed by her wit and intelligence.

We didn’t fuck after that first date. We didn’t fuck after the second, third or fourth dates either. After the fifth date, we went back to my place and the sex was ... Well, it was the best I’d had in a long, long time. Frankly, it was spectacular.