I’m drier than the Sahara, but his eyes flare as if he’s found the fountain of youth between my legs.
If he calls himselfDaddyagain, I’ll projectile vomit in his face, I swear. Considering everything my father does, how he used, abused, and neglected me my whole life, Daddy kink is the last thing I’d ever indulge in. It reminds me of everything bad that I’ve suffered at my father’s hands.
Not a turn-on in the slightest when the wordDaddyevokes memories of his fists ramming into my mother’s stomach whenever she was delusional.
Footsteps echo around us, approaching fast, the distinct click of heels betraying it’s his wife. I think someone’s watching from above, saving me before this scum forces me to kick him in the balls.
Gideon Fitzpatrick would not be pleased if that happened. He’d confiscate my car, credit cards, and turn my life into a living hell for the foreseeable future, but I’d rather take that than let Mr. Simons fuck me against the wall of his luxurious yacht.
“Impeccable timing on that woman,” he rasps, licking my ear. “Next time, sweetie, no one will interrupt us. I’m out of town for a few weeks, but I’ll take you somewhere nice when I return. If you behave, we’ll go shopping, and Daddy will treat you to a designer purse.”
I can barely swallow the vomit threatening to spill from my mouth as he stamps a sloppy kiss on the corner of my lipstick-stained lips, then quickly retreats in the opposite direction from the approaching footsteps.
Dashing into the bathroom at the last moment, I lock myself in one of the stalls, my insides reeling.
I’ve wondered how my father finds these wealthy, powerful degenerates for years. Since he started using me as bait, I haveworkedtwenty-nine men. All held some position of power in society: lawyers, bankers, detectives, politicians... rich, entitled, filthy perverts happy to feel up a young girl. Happy to blatantly flirt while their wives stand nearby.
What is it about money that makes those men feel superior? By this point, I’m fairly certain most of the daredevils grasping at me know my dad’s game. They know he flaunts me in their faces, offering me like a sacrificial lamb, and they happily participate, taking whatever they deem fit.
Most are content with fleeting touches: a cheek rub here, a thigh squeeze there, an inappropriate comment thrown between the lines.
Eleven of the twenty-nine men I worked for my father had their hands on my thigh or boobs. Four touched the most intimate parts of my body. One stuck his dick inside me.
I was seventeen. Senior year in high school. A day much like today. Beautiful weather, a yacht, and a sixty-three-year-old businessman from Europe.
I don’t know what deal my father struck with him. But I do know he sat on the deck while that scum gave me a tour. I wasunderage... I didn’t expect how it ended. Not in my wildest dreams would I have thought the sick fucker would touch me without permission. I mean, my dad was rightthere... I felt safe, so I followed the man.
I’ve never felt safe in my dad’s presence since.
The old fuck pressed me against the wall of the huge, elegant bathroom on the lower deck, covered my mouth with his hand, lifted my skirt, and punched my V card, not caring about the tears trailing down my face.
The longest three minutes of my life.
Once done, he adjusted his pants, threw me a towel, and strolled up the stairs as if nothing had happened.
Dad found me a moment later.
It’s the only time in my life that he looked genuinely concerned. Mostly because he didn’t realize I was a virgin, and the blood smeared over my thighs flipped his stomach. He gave me space after that. Almost four months without requesting my presence at those stupid banquets. He arranged my therapy and showered me with gifts in between making all kinds of threats, so I wouldn’t rat out him or the European businessman.
I never went to therapy, and Dad didn’t care enough to check. Instead of working through the trauma, like I should’ve done, I tried to bury the memory of that brute by sleeping around with college guys onmyterms.
The one good thing that came out of that night was that I stopped bullying Mia. I’d always done it searching for a voice, wanting to be heard and seen because I was invisible in my own home. With a mother who was either hallucinating or heavily medicated and a father who did his utmost to avoid us, I was always on my own. Ignored, powerless... accused of horrid things by my sick mother since I turned five.
Making fun of Mia gave me an audience. People saw me. Listened to me... but when I was raped and stripped of control in the most brutal way, I realized that I’d inflicted exactly the thing I’d been running from my whole life on Mia.
Isolation. Humiliation. No power. No voice...
When my father summoned me to another meeting months later, I was much smarter. Much stronger. No longer a naïve teenage girl. Whenever anyone gets too close, or the situation looks like getting out of hand, I play them like my father plays me.
Turns out most of those men are somewhat decent. They take what I’m willing to give, but back off if I express concern.
Obviously, I have to be smart about it so they don’t storm out or cut my father loose before he gets what he wants.
“Not here, Mr. [insert name here].”
“My father could walk out at any moment. This isn’t safe.”
“Your wife is one door away.”
