2. CHAPTER TWO
The Ritz London’s restaurant with its theater-style seating that overlooks the gardens of Buckingham Palace, is about as metaphorically far from Dagenham as I can get whilst still being in the same city.
Mum and Dad.
That’s who everyone at school thought they were.
I’m not sure if I ever had the opportunity to call Cheryl anything, but Harry… he really loved it when I called him Daddy. He’d rub my shoulders. My thighs. He’d fetch me an ice cream, then drag me to the shed at the back of the overgrown garden through weeds even taller than I was.
“Are you staying with us, sir?” my waitress asks when she returns with the smoothie.
I don’t look up right away, choosing instead to let the moment stretch so I can savor the power that courses through me with the delay.
And when I do, I nod with an arrogant hum.
It’s an effortless lie, as though Harry himself is speaking through me.
Then it begins, just like every time I think of them; my regression into that powerless child.
And this time it’s made even more real by the young woman standing to my side in men’s clothes.
As I suck in air, I can taste Harry’s breath and feel its heat heavy on my face.
My eyes flicker towards the redhead across the room who’s been vying for my attention since I walked into the restaurant, and find her looking at me.
She’s willing.
This could work.
Maybe this time I can claim back control.
Maybe this time I can brush the heaviness of him from my shoulders, or dilute the thickness of his words in my ears. “You’re mine. Tell Daddy you love him. " Who was I to question him when no one had ever taught me otherwise?
I quickly stand, but instead of my chair scratching against the floor, I hear the waitress gasp so loud the next table looks over.
The confusion mixed with lust in her eyes pushes aside the poison inside of me.
I can feel my longer chestnut waves fall forward around my neck as I tilt my head down to her.
And suddenly, destroying this girl’s innocence is far, far more appealing than how that ginger-haired woman’s lips might feel wrapped around my cock.
"How old are you?"
"Um. Just turned twenty, Sir."
My chest swells with misogynistic pride, and I wonder how long it will take to turn her curiosity into tears. “I’m gonna fuck you.”
She blinks twice, as if the words are foreign. As if she was ever going to say no. “Excuse me?” The tremble in her voice dances down my spine. It’s delicious; that flicker of panic.
“Did I stutter?”
Caught in my gravity, she hesitates, and I can see the war being fought between her mind and body.
Common sense versus curiosity.
Fear versus desire.
I’m a disgusting monster molded by hand through abuse, yet she’s drawn to me like a moth to a flame. So, without another word, I step aside and walk towards the palm-flanked exit of the restaurant.
My dick is already hard by the time she locks the powder room door behind her.
After shrugging off my tailored blazer, I lay it over the back of a pink upholstered chair and start unbuttoning my waistcoat.
“Um. My name’s—”
“I don’t care.” I cut her off, nodding at the chair in front of her.
She shoots daggers at me, but she still strips her upper body of the black-and-white uniform.
As my gloved fingers push mother-of-pearl buttons through their holes, I tell her, “Feel free to leave. Just send the redhead in.” And continue to watch myself in the walled mirror behind her.
A fiery determination that, if I’m being honest, doesn’t do a damn thing for me, takes over her mousy face. She wants to fire insults at me, but we both know her clit is pounding. Then it happens, almost exactly the same as it always does. Her eyes widen, her mouth opens, and she just… stares.
Still tucked into the waistband of my trousers, my shirt hangs loose against the back of my legs, and another one of my past self-soothing attempts is on full display.
Collar bones to my ankles and down the length of my arms, is black, blue, and red.
Back and front. Every square inch of available real estate has been filled with the crude and profane.
There are skulls and crosses and whatever the fuck anyone felt like scratching into my skin before rubbing ink into it from a pen they'd stolen from our classes at juvie. It’s a mess, a disaster of cohesion, all started when I carved ‘KILL ME’ into my chest with a safety razor.
“Why are your pants still on?”
The coldness of my inquiry has her fingers trembling as they unzip the tuxedo trousers. Stepping out of them, she hangs her head and folds them neatly over the top of her jacket and vest.
This is that special kind of meek I’d not have seen if I went with my first choice. And her borderline regretful posture turns me back on in a way that makes me wish I'd just slit my own goddamn throat.
Now in nothing but socks and mismatched bra and knickers, I look at the backside of her reflection. She’s got a much fatter ass than that man’s suit would have you believe, so I stalk toward her, and when I reach around to smack it, she squeaks and covers her mouth with her hands.
Staring her in the eyes as she stands there frozen, I unbuckle my pants.
When I slap her ass again, I squeeze it tightly and force her body against mine; her eyes widening further like they’re searching for something to focus on.
My other hand rakes up her back to her neck, then grabs onto her dirty blonde ponytail.
“What’s that?” she asks, suddenly far too taken by my necklace.
“I don’t need you to talk!”
Yanking her ponytail, I turn her body and force her to walk to the mirror.
Once her cheek is pressed against it, I push her underwear down her thighs and reach between her legs.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she balls her hands into fists against the glass and makes a sound I don’t care to place because the poor girl is so wet she never stood a chance.
Taking my dick out, I slap it against her ass, then push between her thighs until I meet the harsh resistance of her cunt.
Tugging on her hair again, I drag her down the mirror until her hips tilt and her ass pops out.
Again I try to enter her, but it’s like she is squeezing herself shut.
Taking her leg, I lift it and pry her open. Thigh up and squashed against the mirror, I take my cock, bend my knees, and force my way inside her.
She screams behind gritted teeth and my head falls back at how fucking good this feels.
Grabbing behind her knee, I push her leg higher and hammer into her vice-like cunt until I have to clamp my hand over her mouth.
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl in her ear, and when she tries to look back at me, I tear her away from the mirror and push her forward over the chair she’d so neatly folded her uniform on.
“You make one more sound and I’ll walk out of here right now and leave the door open so everyone can see what a whore you are. ”
Cradling her head, she bites down on her knuckle and cries.
I pick up speed until her fat ass is smacking against me.
Reaching down, I drag my fingers through her tears and bring them to my lips. Salt and leather and pain and regret.
I’m such a fucking sadist.
I hate that this is what it takes.
I hate that the more she winces in pain, the better it feels for me.
“Fuck you!” I swear at that son-of-a-bitch Harry that I instinctively need to mimic.
“I’m sorry,” she gurgles, balling her now crumpled shirt into her hands.
I snap, “Not you,” and forgive her speech because its quivering agony makes me feel like a god.
I always hear people say dumb shit like, “This cake tastes so much better than sex,” but nothing that I’ve ever experienced in my miserable thirty-three years on this rubbish dump of a planet has ever compared to the high I get from this precise brand of control.
It’s toxic on every conceivable level, but I crave it.
I need to feel powerful.
I need to see that I can instill fear instead of being the one cowering in a huddled ball, left to lick my own wounds and desperate again for that ten minutes of affection before it all started when I ate those goddamn ice creams.
“Please… it hurts.”
Her plea re-slices each letter of KILL ME into my chest.
Pulling out, I look down and see my dick coated in blood.
It’s a mirror to the fear I felt. To the hushed whispers, heavy breaths, and the crushing pain of his weight on me.
“You dumb fuck,” I sigh and pull her up to stand. “Why did you come in here if it was your first time?”
“I… I…” she stutters, trying to wipe her face clean. “No one like you has ever looked at me before.”
“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to get in the van with the man who promised you a puppy?”
“But… You…”
“What’s your name?”
“Lindsay.”
“I’m a bad man, Lindsay.”
“But you stopped when I said—”
I slap one hand over her mouth as the other grips the back of her head so I can shake her. “I am not a nice guy!”
Squeezing her eyes shut, a mass of tears roll down her flushed cheeks and over the back of my glove. Impulsively, my tongue circles my lips, and my dick, which had already moved on, is back at full attention.
“You’re never gonna fucking forget this, are you?” I breathe out, not really speaking to her. “Do you think you can keep crying, but also do exactly what I tell you?”
Nodding the best she can, she sniffles and blinks.
Pulling her face nearer, I lean in to catch a tear on her cheek with the tip of my tongue.
The taste lingers on my palette as my hand slips from her mouth to push my trousers down my legs until they fall to the ground.
Gently cradling her head with both hands, I tilt her back before drawing the flat of my tongue up both her cheeks.
“You’re gonna be on top, okay?” I whisper against her lips, feigning a tenderness I’ve never known. “And I’ll show you how to make it feel good.”