Chapter 3: You Don't Leave Me

Four weeks after fucking his daughter, George's wife left him.

It was just as he'd suspected. The 38-year-old woman had found a sugar-daddy, a man who worked with her sister who made oodles of money and was willing to lavish her with gifts. She'd been seeing him for months, and now he'd proposed. She wanted a divorce, right now.

George was angry, sure. Especially at the way she had told him all this, so matter-of-factly, so coldly. But he had come to terms with his wife's adultery weeks before. He'd come to terms with it when he'd poked his penis into his passed out daughter's cunt. After fucking the 13-year-old girl, George had become more relaxed, more content. Sure, his wife was fucking another man. Sure, his daughter was a whore of a slut who defied him at every turn. But at least Amy was his. She was his, and no one could change that. He'd proven this when he'd fucked her, when he'd made her cum in her own bed, when he'd done all this without the girl even being aware.

And that was the best part. He'd fucked his tramp of a daughter and she didn't even know he had. In the days following his fucking her, Amy had been distant, sure, but George had known why: she'd been afraid of getting busted for being out late and for drinking. He never did punish her for that, and the stupid little girl probably had no idea why. And eventually their relationship had returned to the way it had been before.

Of course, he didn't really see her the same way anymore. Now when she was in her PJ's, he envisioned what was underneath them. When she wore her trampy outfits he no longer criticized. He enjoyed looking at his daughter's body, even as he completely lost interest in his wife's. But even though he'd become attracted to his 13-year-old girl, and even though he didn't mind jacking off to the memory of his cock planted deep inside her twat, he had no plans on ever doing anything like that again. He'd proven his point, that she was his. That was enough.

"We're not good together, George," Mary had said at the end of her long, cold explanation. "We both know it. I just... I'm willing to move on. I hope you are, too."

Those were in fact the last words Mary said to him before walking out of the house, a suitcase gripped tightly in each hand. It was infuriating to watch her go, and her explanations why were like meaningless bullshit, but at least he wouldn't have to pay any alimony. She would be marrying her newfound love the second the divorce was final.

"Aren't ya even gonna say goodbye to Amy?" he'd called to her just before she got to the door. The words obviously rattled her, too, but rather than respond, she just left. A cab was waiting for her to take her away, away from him.

"Stupid cunt," George said after she was gone.

When Amy got home from school she tried to bolt directly to her room. Typical teenager, George thought, avoiding her parent at all cost.

"Amy!" he yelled.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, still wearing his overalls and dirty white t-shirt from work. When she entered the room, he allowed his eyes to gaze wantonly up and down her tight little body. She was wearing a loose-fitting green halter-top with thin straps that arched over her slender shoulders. Her breasts seemed to bulge around the garment and were the only place where the top was tight on her. Her belly-button was just barely exposed, and her jeans were tight and light-blue and low riding.

Damn, thought George. She must not be wearing panties or I'd see their waistband. What a slut.

"I gotta tell you something," he said to his slut of a daughter.

She stepped toward him and then, with her eyes to the floor, sat down across the table from him.

He stared intently at her face. She wasn't looking at him. Her hair framed her youthful, oval face. Her expression was one of typical teenage annoyance.

"Your step-mom," he said matter-of-factly, "left."

She looked up at him in surprise. "What?" the girl asked.

"She left. She's not coming back. She found a new man, she's gone."

George was surprised at his girl's sudden tears. Suddenly he realized that though he'd been ready for this, Amy hadn't had this luxury. She probably hadn't imagined that her step-mom could leave.

"Why didn't she say goodbye?" the girl said, her lower lip trembling.

"Look, I know you see her as your mom, but she wasn't your mom," George said quickly. "Mary, well, shit. She never treated anyone right, not you, not even me."

Amy was sobbing into her hands now. She was blubbering something like, "Why did she leave? Why did she leave?"

George didn't know what to do. Fuck, he thought, she's genuinely upset. Forgot the whole thing about Mary being the only mom she's ever known. Shit.

Suddenly he stood up and went to the fridge. His daughter was still bawling when he placed a cold long-neck in front of her.

"Drink that," he said.

The girl stopped crying for a moment. George felt awkward. He wanted her to handle her grief the way he always had, and if she didn't, well, he didn't know what to do. Hug her? Kiss her? Tell her everything is going to be all right? That wasn't possible.

Amy stared at the beer. Her cute young face was stained with tears, and she looked up at him, then back at the bottle. Her expression was enough to break his heart, and he had to remind himself what a nasty little bitch she really was in order to retain his composure.

Finally, and to his great relief, she gripped the frosted bottle and placed its opening to her lips. He cracked open one for himself, too, while his little girl drank greedily at her beer. He sat back down and looked at her.

"She wasn't really my mom," Amy said after her beer was almost finished, "but... you know, why didn't she say goodbye? She was... didn't she love me?"

She was getting ready to cry again. George stood up, got her another beer, and as she began to drink it he said, "She's a bitch, Amy. She never cared about you or me. This guy she's leaving me for, she's going to him because he's got money. She don't give two shits about him, either. Trust me."

The next hour was spent like that: Amy, wearing her tight little outfit and alternately wailing and speaking philosophical while George gave her beer after beer and tried to answer his little girl's questions. By the time she finally had to go to the bathroom the girl had probably drank as much beer as she'd cried tears.

And now George's cock was hard. His wife had left him but his daughter was here, and damn, the memory of her tight pussy around his dick was impossible to forget. And he was getting her drunk, too. Maybe he could get her as drunk as she'd been that night a few weeks before when he'd fucked her passed out body. Boy did he want to! He began to rub himself between his legs just as Amy returned to the kitchen.

She froze when she saw him. George hadn't heard her enter, but he grinned at her expression. She seemed surprised and embarrassed, and she even stepped back as if to go away.

"Wait," he said to her. She stopped moving, and just stared.

He began to unzip his pants. "Get over here," he demanded. Might as well treat her like the slut she was, he reasoned. She was definitely drunk by now, and so was he. A drunk slut like her probably wanted cock more than anything, and he would be happy to oblige.