Chapter 1: It Just is Not Fair

Life was being completely unfair to George Torch.

He sipped his beer with this thought in his head, his eyes staring blankly at the television set. It was a Saturday night, almost eleven, and here he was alone in his house, his empty house, feeling depressed and angry and horny and alone. His wife, Mary, was visiting her sister in the country. His daughter, Amy, was out past curfew. And his friends were probably at the bowling alley or the titty bar, having a great time, while he was stuck at home where he was supposed to watching that no good brat.

It was completely unfair. His wife had been visiting her sister's a lot recently. Three months ago she'd gone to visit her for the first time in years; since then she was spending practically every other weekend with the bitch. And of course she never invited him, always insisted he not go actually, not that he'd want to spend any time with that fucked up family of hers anyway.

Amy was another matter. His 13-year-old daughter should have been home by sunset. That was the rule. But now it was nearing eleven and the brat still wasn't home. He had no way of getting a hold of her, had no idea who she was with.

It wasn't that George was worried, though. Far from it. He was angry. Angry at his wife, who he was sure had found some other guy who she was most likely fucking at this very moment. Angry at his daughter, who defied him at every turn and constantly rebelled against any form of discipline he dished out. Angry at himself, too, for ever having taken the girl. He should have just let her mom have custody, he now realized. And George was angry at himself for marrying Mary when Amy was a toddler: at the time he'd figured it would make raising her easier. The idea of constant and easy pussy had been appealing, too-Mary had a hot body and loved to fuck.

The problems with Mary had been going on for, well, ever since the wedding day. He'd had to smack her around a lot more than he'd imagined to keep her in line. It took years of constant pressure from him to break her down into a good wife. But now she was out there, fucking some other guy, probably getting set to leave him. He'd broken her but now she was fixed because some fucking asshole had told her she deserved better, or some shit like that. What fucking bullshit.

And Amy, damn. The girl had always been hard to control. For years a good spanking or, if she was especially defiant, a few smacks with the belt had set her straight. But ever since the little brat had grown those little boobs of hers, ever since she'd started middle school, ever since she'd become a hormone-ridden barely pubescent teenager, well, nothing seemed to work.

He cracked open another beer and finally noticed the TV. Weather report, breaking news. Severe Thunderstorm, news at eleven. No shit, he thought. He could hear the rain outside accompanied by rolling thunder. A good old-fashioned summer storm to clean the city.

George cracked open another beer and gulped down half of it in one take. What had he ever done to deserve this shit? Nothing. He'd worked hard his whole life. He'd gone to war for his country, had seen friends die, had killed a whole lot of gooks. He paid his taxes and kept a roof over his family's head and fed them three squares a day. To be treated like this, with no respect, was total bullshit.

A flash of his naked wife getting hammered by some strange dude entered his mind, and he clenched his fist. What a cunt. What a stupid, lying, ungrateful cunt. Since that first visit to her sister's three months ago she'd acted like her pussy was too good for him. He knew why. And she knew he knew why, and she rubbed it in his face by declaring practically every weekend that she would be visiting her sister again.

Her "sister". Code for "a hot stud who fucks me better than you ever did". What a bitch. Divorce was right around the corner, he could feel it. And that would mean alimony, probably, unless she married the dude she would be leaving him for right away. What a country-he was going to pay his double-crossing, louse of a wife for leaving him?

Life was being mean and rough and unforgiving in every way possible. With every sip of beer George grew angrier and hornier and more depressed.

The horniness was something he could at least take care of. He had half a mind to call an escort, but George hadn't paid for pussy since the war. During the war, paying for pussy was normal. None of them chink-sluts gave it up for free, back then. But he might as well just jack off. Why pay for pussy when he should be getting it for free? Mary should be here, fucking him.

He stood from his recliner and stumbled to his bedroom. Thunder boomed outside the small house as he rumbled through his closet and grabbed the first DVD from his stack of porno movies then made his way back to the living room.

This was a good one, he realized immediately when the movie began. He'd seen others in the series, and these girls were some of the hottest yet. George had been buying porn for years, and had a huge collection: movies, magazines, books. Hell, the only reason he ever bought a computer was because of all the nasty-ass shit he'd heard you could find on the internet. But nothing, he thought, beat a movie like this.

Young, fresh looking women. A group of large, foreboding men. The plot was always the same: the bitch wanted something, the first guy told her to suck his cock. She'd get mad, disgusted, but then, ultimately, do it. She'd get on her knees, she'd take his thing, and reluctantly take it into her mouth. But the man would just laugh. He'd grab her head, gag her on his prick. Later he'd bend her over, spank her ass, make her beg for more. Then he'd invite his friends over, and by this point the girl was so dominated and broken down that she would do anything they wanted.

George hated the pornos that tried to have a plot, or any semblance of romance. He liked these, the rougher ones, the ones where the men were men and the women were sluts. Halfway into the first scene he had his cock out and was stroking it with one hand and sipping a beer with his other.

Another boom of thunder from outside. And then he heard a different sort of "boom". It was the sound of a car door being slammed. George sat up quickly, alert now, and shoved his thick hard member back into his pants. He didn't bother to turn the TV off. He stood and marched toward the front door.

He caught Amy there, trying to stealthily enter the house. The brat probably figured she could sneak in, get to her room, and fall asleep, her stupid old man none the wiser.

"Where the FUCK have you been?" he demanded.

She jumped in surprise at his sudden appearance, her large eyes going wide with shock. She looked afraid. Good.

"I'm just, been out, I mean, uh, my friend was driving and we got sorta lost and..."

"Save it," George simmered. Suddenly he smelled something. He leaned in close to his daughter, who was soaking wet from the rain.

"You been drinking?" he asked coldly.

She stumbled to the side. Her clumsiness and slurred voice gave it away: she was drunk. Just 13-years-old and smelling like a wino.

"Get to your room," he demanded, his voice on the verge of exploding. "You're fucking grounded for a long time. Get to your fucking ROOM!"

But the girl didn't hear him; she was laughing drunkenly. She stumbled forward, leaving the front door hanging open, and grabbed at him to keep from falling. She was soaking wet, and her small, budding breasts were visible through her drenched white t-shirt. His fists were clenched so tight they hurt.

She staggered away, toward the stairs, and nearly fell again. She turned at him and laughed some more. She said something like, "I'm not fucking drunk! Jesus, I'm not drunk!"

Every syllable was rolled, slurred, and forced. She was so hammered she had no idea what she was saying.

He watched her stumble up the stairs, and then into her bedroom. He heard a loud thump, and then more laughter, and then the sound of springs being depressed as she undoubtedly fell onto her mattress.

George fumed there at the landing for a moment, then turned around and slammed the door shut. The rain was pounding against the windows. He made his way back to the recliner and grabbed another beer from the case resting right next to it.

Tomorrow, he thought, Tomorrow I'll bring back the belt. Yeah. It's been too long. I've let her get away with too much. Now she's drinking? Thirteen and drinking? I'll wake her up early, so she'll be hung over and miserable, and bend her over my lap, and beat the hell out of her ass...

His hard-on had returned, but it wasn't because of the movie. The thought of spanking his little girl again, for the first time in a couple years, was making him hard as a pipe. The image of her staggering into the house, her tight white shirt drenched with rain and her tiny little boobs clearly visible through it, well, that image wouldn't go away either.

His little girl. The little brat. He should have let her mom keep her, shouldn't have demanded custody. If he'd never kept her, he wouldn't have married Mary, who was out fucking some guy right this instant. He'd be out with his friends, picking up hot sluts and doing to them what these guys in this movie were doing right now.

His attention returned to the screen. The bitch was moaning, begging for more as one guy fucked her from behind and another spurted his cum onto her youthful face.

Still, though, it was the thought of Amy, his Amy, that was keeping him hard. What had she been up to tonight? A 13-year-old little hottie, getting drunk and staying out late? Maybe she'd sucked off some guy, the way this porn-girl was doing on TV. Or, shit, who knows? The way kids were nowadays, maybe she'd been fucked. Maybe she'd fucked a few guys, even.

He slammed down his beer and began stroking himself again. God, it'd been a long time since he'd been this hard. Images of his little girl getting fucked flooded his brain. He'd just seen her tits tonight, through that shirt. First time he'd seen his little girl naked since she'd been a toddler. He wondered what her pussy looked like: was it bald still? If she had pubes, did she shave them?

Amy was anything but innocent, that much he knew. He'd found missing porn mags in her room before, he'd gone onto her computer and seen the filth she'd downloaded. Mary had told him this was normal, and not to embarrass her with his discoveries.

"She's just curious," his wife had said. "She's at a curious age."

Curious my ass, he thought. She was definitely an out-of-control, horny little slut. She'd probably be knocked up in a couple years. She'd been drunk tonight, Jesus! She'd probably gotten fucked, she'd probably sucked off at least one or two guys...

George nearly came as he thought these things, but he was good at holding himself off. He didn't want to cum. The movie was going to the next scene. Maybe he should watch it. Then again, his little girl was passed out upstairs.

He'd seen her tits tonight. But he hadn't really seen her tits. He'd seen them through her wet shirt. Maybe he deserved a peek, a look at what the boys she was fucking got to see?

George stood up, then, and slammed down the rest of the beer. He was drunk, and he knew it. He should probably just go to bed. But even as he thought this, he left his cock hanging out in the open as he staggered toward the stairs, and then made his way up them.

He paused at the door. It was the door to Amy's room. The light was on, but no sound could be heard from within.

She's my daughter, he thought. She's mine! If I want to see her tits, what's the fucking harm? Just one quick look. Just one little peek, and I'll be set to jerk off and go to sleep. And besides, she was passed out. No way she'd know.

And after all, she was his! She was his daughter! So what if she did know? He turned the doorknob.

The room's décor belied his daughter's sluttiness. Her carpet was a light pink, the walls were a light pink, her dresser and desk and bed were all painted white. On the walls were posters of ponies and boy-bands and female teeny-boppers. All of it was lit right now in the soft glow of a single lamp on her nightstand. If he didn't know that the computer sitting on her cute little desk was filled with pornographic movies and pictures and stories and more, well, George might have felt a paternal instinct to tuck her in, kiss her forehead, and leave her in peace.

Instead the drunken man made a few cautious steps forward as he stared at his little girl. She was passed out on her bed, lying atop her disheveled covers. She way on her belly, her arms brought up around her head, her long red hair covering her face and back.

To his disappointment, but not surprise, she was still fully clothed. She'd simply staggered to her bed and plopped down on it and summarily passed out. He could hear heavy breathing, which was rhythmic with sleep. The only other sound was the booming of thunder and the incessant panging of rain against the windows.

When he got to her bed his shadow fell across the form of his daughter. She seemed so small, so delicate. She seemed almost innocent. His cock was still sticking out from his pants, but who cared? No one knew. She certainly didn't know. It was so hard that George felt like he was 18 again, back in Vietnam raping one of the chink-sluts in a battle's aftermath during the last year of the war.

He went down to one knee and stared at his daughter. Just a peek at her tits, he thought. I deserve a fucking peek, he thought. One peek and I can jack off. A good man deserves a good cum. Fucking wife out fucking some other guy, right now, and this little slut acting like she's all that, shit, I deserve just a little peek, just a little peek to get a good cum later. It's the least I deserve!

When his big, trembling hands made contact with her shoulders, George inhaled deeply. Then he turned her over. The little girl, just shy of five feet tall, rolled over easily. What's more, she didn't make a peep. She continued to breathe slowly, heavily, rhythmically. Now she was on her back. Now he got another look at those tits, still visible through her tight little white t-shirt. This time he noticed what that shirt had written on it.

The words were in large, bold, pink cursive. They read: "I'm cute? No shit."