Chapter 13: No One Grows Up Saying
"Well, Mr. Torch, I'm going to be blunt. What I'm going to tell you won't be easy to hear. You need to understand that the only reason we're talking right now is because I feel an obligation, as a father myself, to inform you of certain... events that transpired this past Saturday."
George gripped the small coffee cup in his hand so tightly he almost cracked it. He gritted his teeth and prepared for the worst.
"There's no easy way to say this," the man sitting across from him said, "but I have reason to believe your daughter, Amy, was involved in an act of prostitution with a man I'm currently investigating."
A long, pregnant silence ensued. George felt his grip against his cup of coffee relax, tighten, then relax again. This wasn't the worst news he'd expected. When the strange man had arrived at his worksite asking to talk with him in private, George had been annoyed. But when this rough-jawed and east-coast accented asshole had described himself as private detective and that his investigation now involved Amy? Well, George had grown nervous. Incredibly nervous. Why would a detective want to talk to him, even a private-dick, about his little girl? Could it have something to do with what he'd done to her? Was he busted?
He'd said his name was English. Richard English, a licensed private investigator from New York.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" George finally simmered.
The two were sitting in a booth at a diner not far from where George was currently working demolition. The stranger had a briefcase at his side and was presently rummaging through it. Finally he dropped a thick manila folder onto the table.
"His name is Raymond A. Katterman. He's an investment broker with a large holdings firm based in Manhattan," the P.I. began. "Three months ago his wife, Mrs. Jean Katterman, retained my services. She had begun to believe her husband, of some 13-years I should say, was engaged in an affair with a third party, a college-intern whom I'll not mention here. Mrs. Katterman wanted proof of this affair before moving forward with a suit to file for divorce."
George stared at him. This "P.I." had a hum-drum look of boredom mixed with resolve in his eyes. The two rarely ever meet, but it did in his grizzled countenance. George had seen such an expression before, maybe once or twice. Maybe once in the expression of his DL just before he shipped out to 'Nam. Maybe it was a look reserved for those who knew too much but could say only little.
"What does that have to do with Amy?" George asked with every muscle in his body tensed.
English met George's stare before opening the manila folder.
Photographs were exposed within, photos George immediately glanced down at. Only after the top one was pushed over to him did he actually focus on the image it contained, though. It was an 8x10 full-colored photograph of his daughter walking out of some store in the mall with a man almost his own age. His little girl was unmistakable. It was definitely her. And she was accepting a large shopping bag from the man George assumed had to be Katterman.
"What store is this?" George asked as he stared down at the photograph.
"Hot Stuff, at the Cleveland Mall," English stated. "I took the pictures myself on Saturday."
George stared at each picture as they were pushed in front of him. His little girl, walking with this strange man. Next a picture of her going down an escalator with him; she looked like she was giggling at some joke. The next images were of her and him walking out to a car in the parking lot.
"After leaving the mall," English stated, "your daughter went with Mr. Katterman to the nearby Hilton. I followed them in, as the next pictures show."
George watched in stunned silence as more photos of his daughter showed her arrive with this strange man at the Hilton, exit the car with him, and then enter the hotel lobby.
"They came out about two hours later," the P.I. finally continued. "I staked out the lobby at first and saw them take an elevator to the top floor. After that I waited in the parking lot until they finally reappeared, then followed them back to the mall. Mr. Katterman dropped your daughter off there, at the northeast entrance, at approximately 4:10pm."
"What else?" George asked quietly.
"Nothing," English shrugged while lighting up another cigarette. "I only followed Katterman. He went to some gentleman's club downtown, someplace called 'Barely Luck'. He had a few drinks I'd wager, but he returned to his Hilton room later that evening without incident."
George tried to absorb everything. The picture English was painting suggested a dirty, obvious explanation for what his daughter had been doing with this 'Katterman' asshole.
"Did he fuck her?" George asked the P.I. pointedly.
"I don't know the answer to that, Mr. Torch," English responded coolly. "I hope not. But the truth is I have no clue what went on in that room those two hours. All I know is that Ray Katterman is a lying, adulterous scumbag. I knew that the second I started investigating him, and now I'm beginning to suspect that he's created some kind of alter ego for himself to act out some sick fantasies. Your daughter might have been the victim of one of his fantasies.
"Look," English went on, "like I said earlier, I know none of this is easy to hear. But I'm telling you. Your daughter went into that store on Saturday a normal girl, but she came out willing to prostitute her body for a stranger. That's Katterman. He's really, extremely good at manipulating people, George. It's his trade. And while I don't know what he did to her in that room I do know that he purchased $260 worth of clothing for her. His credit card receipts prove that. What he got in return for that, well... he's an excellent negotiator, his co-workers tell me."
George nodded calmly. "You're saying my daughter is a whore."
"I'm saying," the private-dick emphasized, "that she might have been exploited by a sick, demented asshole."
George stared down at the photos again. "So what do you do now?"
"Me? I'm going back to the city," English stated as he sipped his coffee.
"Amy has been through a lot. Her mother died during her birth, and her step-mom just left us," George said matter-of-factly.
The P.I. nodded. "Like I said, I only let you know because I'm a father, too. Normally I would just contact the authorities but, let's be honest, they're not going to do a whole lot unless he did in fact have sex with her, in which case she'd spend the next year of her life dealing with the courts."
"Thanks," George replied, doing his best to remain calm. "I'm going to talk to her today, right after her classes. I'm going to ask her about Saturday, about what went on in that room with Katterman, find out the truth."
"May I suggest," Detective English asked, "you consider getting her counseling, too?"
George glared at him. Finally he replied, "Yeah. Sure. Counseling, and maybe cut her allowance. Tighten the leash."
"That's a good idea," English agreed.
The two sipped their coffees. One of them was relaxed and satisfied. The other was tense, blind with rage, and waiting for his companion to depart.
"Well," English finally said, "I best be off. Here's my card. If you need me, don't hesitate to call."
"Need you?" George snapped.
The man looked surprised for the first time. "If you decide to press charges against Katterman, I mean."
"Oh," George replied. "Sure, yeah."
Motherfucker, he thought angrily a few moments later, after English had departed. Throwing down his cash he stood quickly from his seat.
"Mother... fuck!" he hissed a bit too loudly.
With that he stormed out of the diner and marched back toward the job site. On the way there he crossed a busy street with no regard for his safety: his mind was fixated on one thing. His little girl, a prostitute. A genuine fucking whore. Fucking for clothes!?! Is that why she loved going to the mall so much?!? Had she paid for her whole wardrobe with her cunt?!
When he got back to the fenced off work yard he tore off his hardhat and stormed toward his truck. He didn't even notice when his fat little supervisor saw him and began waddling in his direction.
"TORCH!" the piece of shit yelled. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YA DOING?!? BREAK TIME'S OVER!"
George ignored the round piece of shit and climbed up into his truck. After gunning the engine he saw his supervisor at his truck's window, knocking angrily at it and trying to yell over the blare of loud Country music that had started with George's vehicle.
George rolled down the window with a look of pure Devil in his eyes. "I'm taking off early!" he growled at his boss.
"Like shit you are! I got you clocked in till four, Torch, and I ain't authorizing no—,"
In a rage, George didn't think. All he did was act. His left hand suddenly flew out the window and pushed his short supervisor in the face until the tub of lard fell back violently onto the gravely ground.
With that George peeled away. He didn't even consider what the repercussions of what he'd just done might be. All he could think about was his little girl, his slut of a brat, fucking strange men for clothing. What else had she fucked for? Money? Drugs? Was she a full-blown prostitute, had her sluttiness become a lifestyle? Or was it some kinda part-time thing right now?
It was time to find out.
George practically dragged Amy out of her school until he threw the startled and confused girl into his truck.
"Did something happen?" she kept asking. She'd been asking that since he'd arrived at the school's office, where George had signed her out for the day citing a family emergency.
He didn't say a word to her until they were nearly halfway home. He could tell she was scared. Good. He wanted her scared. He wanted her to be so scared she'd have no choice but to tell him the truth for once.
She was rubbing the part of her arm he'd grabbed to "escort" her down the empty school hallway and out into the parking lot. She looked like she wanted to ask something. He waited.
"D-Daddy? Wh-what's going on?" the small teenager eventually whispered.
"We'll discuss it at home," he said, his voice simmering with barely restrained rage.
When they got inside the house, George expected her to bolt up the stairs to her room. But she was much too scared to do that, he discovered. Instead she stood just inside the doorway as he eyed her menacingly.
"Go to your room," he said after a long moment. "Right fucking now."
The 14-year-old didn't hesitate. Without a word she spun her head, sending her long red hair flying, and made a beeline up the stairs until George lost her from view and he heard her bedroom door shut.
What was he going to do? he wondered. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to hurt her, hurt her bad.
But why, exactly? Why did he want to hurt her? Why was he this fucking angry? Could it be that he was jealous that she'd fuck another guy his age? Did it really have to do with the prostitution?
George slammed down a cold, tall beer at the fridge as he mulled this over. He thought about her mom. She'd been a total slut, too, but she'd always denied it afterwards. She'd even denied the baby was his—she would never have told him he was going to be a father had he not stumbled across her out east that day! What a bitch. What a hypocrite. She'd begged for his cum, had loved riding his cock, for months. Then she'd suddenly disappeared one day, running back home to Mommy and Daddy.
He grunted in satisfaction at the memory of finally defeating her. That had been one of the best moments of his life, when he'd seen that look of humiliated resignation on her face. Even so, part of him wished he could have taught her a proper lesson. A lesson even more personal, a lesson even more humiliating. For years he'd dreamed of what he might have done. God, how many times over the years had he hammered away at Mary wishing it was actually Amy's slut mom he was fucking?
Slamming the empty bottle down on the counter, George marched toward the stairs. He knew what he had to do.
When he got to her door he opened it without hesitation. He saw his little girl on her computer writing some kind of e-mail.
"Get on your bed," he ordered her.
"Why?" she asked, her eyes widened in terror at his sudden entrance.
He let his harsh glare do the speaking for him. Seconds later Amy hopped out of her chair and ran to her bed. She took a seat on its edge while keeping her panic-stricken eyes on him.
"I'm going to ask you some questions," George said. "And you'd better be fucking honest with your answers. Understand?"
"Y-yes... ," the trembling girl replied.
"Are you a prostitute?" George suddenly demanded.
"What?!?" Amy exclaimed with indignation. "No, why would even say—,"
Her denial pissed him off to the point that he saw red. He heard her scream once his open hand slapped violently down across her pretty young face, hurtling her body back onto the bed. When the red cleared he saw her whimpering on her mattress, her pink, innocent-girl mattress, sobbing hysterically with puffy red eyes.
"Don't lie to me!" he growled as he marched forward and leaned across the canopied bed. He violently grabbed her hair and yanked her head in his direction. With a finger in her face he screamed, "You fucked a guy so he'd buy you clothes on Saturday! Don't deny it! I saw photos, of you and him, you stupid cunt!"
She cried in pain and sobbed, blubbering frantically, writhing her small body beneath him as he continued to admonish her.
"He was being followed by a detective, you stupid bitch! He photographed the whole thing!"
If what he was saying registered anymore in the young girl's head, George couldn't tell. She was sobbing and terrified and obviously in pain. Finally he let go of her hair and let her crumple into her mattress again. He watched as she tried to scoot away from him, and he let her try, because the gesture was a futile one anyway. She had nowhere to run.
And crazy, angry thoughts were going through his mind. It was as though he was possessed.
"You fucked him for clothes, didn't you?" he finally asked.
"Yes!" she blubbered, pressing her face into the mattress so that she wouldn't have to look at him.
"Lay down," George ordered her. He watched as his 14-year-old girl continued to sob, pretending not to hear his request. "Lay the fuck down, Amy!"
The small girl finally obeyed. She uncurled herself, and rolled slowly onto her back. Finally she scooted her body backward until her head could rest on her pillow. The entire time she sobbed uncontrollably.
George slowly took a seat on the mattress, then, and looked down onto his whimpering little girl. She'd sold that hot little piece for $260? he wondered. If she wasn't his daughter he would have considered that a bargain. But because she was his daughter, and at his mercy, he knew it was a rip-off.
A slut like her? Shit, he could get it for free.
He didn't speak a word when he began to unbuckle the thick, ornamental belt she wore.
"Don't you say a word," he hissed at her. "Don't you move a fucking muscle."
Her sobbing intensified as the belt came free but otherwise she was obedient. She didn't speak and didn't move. When the buckle was undone he began to undo her jeans' buttons: she had the button-up fly style pants on. That was fine with him. As he undid button after button she simply whimpered a bit more loudly whenever one came undone.
When he turned in the opposite direction to undo her shoes, he almost felt tempted to order her to take off her top. But no, not right now. Right now he had to show her he was in charge. He was her father, he could do to her what he wanted.
After her shoes were off, he quickly and unceremoniously gripped the hem of her shirt and pulled it up her soft, barely pubescent body. She continued to whimper but didn't make any other sort of protest. In fact, she was so obedient now that she even raised her arms without having to be told.
Every time George saw her tits they seemed better than the last. A little fuller, a little rounder, a little bit more mature. She had a few years left before she'd have a true woman's body, but she was heading in the right direction. And the way her chest heaved as she sobbed silently at his mercy made his cock grow as hard as a pipe.
Now he began to rub at her little cunt through her panties. At first he used his open hand, then three fingers, then only one. After a few moments of twiddling her slit through her pink-cotton panties, George roughly peeled the girl's underwear down so that her tender young pussy was fully exposed. And even before he touched it again he knew it was wet.
"See what kind of a slut you are?" he breathed heavily as he fingered her damp slit. Suddenly he brought his penetrating finger up under her nose, making her gasp and writhe with embarrassment.
"See? Smell that? You smell that?!? That's the smell of you begging for cock you stupid dumb slut!"
He didn't return his finger to her pussy, though. Instead he used that hand to grip one of her small white tits while he used the other to unzip his pants. Moments later he crawled on top of her.
"Already got your legs spread," he breathed down at her as he positioned himself. Her sobbing had stopped finally but the girl was refusing to look up into his angry face. "A natural slut... I knew you grew up wanting to be a little whore... now you're Daddy's whore..."
And then he did it. He pushed his hard, thick cock against his daughter's little baby-hole. She yelped at the intrusion and gasped at his relentlessness. All George could think about, though, was the fact that he was fucking her again. Fourth time. And only the second time while she was conscious and aware. The feeling of her actually squirming around under him, the sensation of her pussy around his dick while she moaned—it was incredible. This was the best time yet.
He cried out, calling her all the filthiest names he could think of. She began to moan and sob and blubber this and that as he rutted into her, but he didn't care what she was saying. All he cared about was that his cock was forcing its way into her tight, 14-year-old cunt, and that she was wet for him, and that she deserved this anyway, because she was a slut...
He was so worked up that he came the moment his coarse main of pubes slammed against her soft, fuzzy pubic region. She groaned in pain, he groaned in pleasure. And then he shot his seed into the whorish little brat, and continued to cum while she wailed beneath him. She was probably cumming, he told himself as he collapsed onto her small body. He enjoyed the feeling of his cock shrinking inside her cum-filled cunt for a minute then pulled out and abruptly left the room.
He had to think some more. He wasn't done with her yet, that much he was sure of, but adrenaline was rushing through his veins and he needed to calm down and think. Part of him wanted to go right back into the room and fuck her again, but no: he needed to do something better than that.
He had to be alone for a while, he thought, had to think things through. Yeah. He needed a few minutes alone to figure out what he should do next to his little girl.