Chapter 15: The Deal
George was hung over, sore, and tired when his alarm woke him up at 6am. It wasn't until he got out of bed, finally, that he realized he was naked, and memories from the night before came swarming back. He couldn't help but smile when they did, too.
What a great idea it'd been to give the slut a taste of her own medicine. By the time he'd gotten back from bowling his little girl had been so bombarded with porn that her young mind had snapped. He'd been drunk, sure, but he could clearly remember how willing and eager she'd been to do everything he wanted. The fucking, the blowjob, the way she'd curled her tiny body up against his and fallen asleep with a smile on her face. The idea had been to teach her how to be a good slut, and he had succeeded beyond his wildest imagination.
After showering, George snuck into her room and watched her sleeping peacefully on her bed. She looked so innocent right now, naked and snuggled up under her pink covers. Only hours ago she hadn't behaved innocently at all.
She seemed surprised when he woke her up and told her she had to go to school. She didn't say much, but nodded and got out of bed and went to her dresser to pick out some clothes for the day. George was pleased to see that she made no effort to hide her nudity from him.
He followed her to the bathroom, which was still full of steam from the hot shower he'd just taken. She left the door open, another good sign. He watched her splash some cold water in her face and proceed to brush her teeth. He leaned against the doorframe as he observed her: she was so fucking gorgeous, he thought. Even at fourteen she had the body, grace, and beauty that could entice any man. It was a good thing he'd finally decided to control her, or she was going to end up in a lot of trouble. Shit, the little slut had already prostituted herself! What would have been next, group orgies? Drugs? Pregnancy?
Yeah, I'm gonna control this slut. Can't ask a slut to stop being a slut anymore than you can ask a dog to stop being a dog. But you can control them, he decided. You could train them. And he was going to do just that.
When Amy stepped into the bathtub and closed the shower curtain, George briefly considered watching, but ruled against it. It was early, he was hungover. He needed coffee if he was going to make it through work today.
About an hour later Amy came downstairs with her book bag, purse, and coat. She came into the kitchen and George looked up from his paper to examine her. She had a sort of blank expression on her youthful face, but other than that she appeared normal. She was wearing a pair of faded designer jeans with little stylish rips in it that had cuffs cropped up almost to her knees, exposing her calves and ankles. Her shirt was a soft, light white t-shirt that had a large picture of "Elmo" on the front—the shirt came down to just above the top of her pants, revealing the slightest bit of her firm, flat belly. Her hair was held back with a sort of sequined, lacy headband, which kept her long red hair pushed back revealing the entirety of her beautiful face. He noticed that the girl had applied some lip gloss to her soft lips, too, and that she'd sprinkled just a hint of makeup-glitter to her cheeks. She looked like a typical 14-year-old, fashion conscious girl. Memories of her lips wrapped around his stiff cock the night before flashed through his mind as he studied her, making him grin.
"Well," she said softly from across the way, "I guess I better get going."
She began to put on her leather coat when George stopped her. "No," he said. "I'll drive ya to school today. Sit down and have some breakfast or something. You didn't eat dinner."
She paused. "Uhm... you'll be late for work, though," she said meekly.
He gave her a hard, steeled glare. "You gonna start being defiant to me again?" he demanded. "Let me worry about work. Have some cereal."
George was pleased when he saw his daughter, whose instinct was definitely to keep arguing, slowly place her book bag on the floor and then walk over to the kitchen table. He knew it was best not to let her get away with anything: if he was to control her, he had to make sure she obeyed his every word. She had to know that nothing was up for discussion.
She put her purse on the table and slung her coat over the back of a chair, then proceeded to make herself a bowl of cereal. He watched as she went up on tippy-toes to reach a bowl from the top shelf of the cupboard, and couldn't help but admire her cute teenage butt. God must be a fucking genius, he thought in admiration.
He went back to his paper and sipped his coffee while Amy began to eat her breakfast. Realizing his coffee was almost gone he said, without looking up, "Pour me another cup, baby girl."
He didn't look to see if she obeyed. This was another test. Amy had never waited on anybody: it wasn't in her nature. Just how well had he broken her spirit the night before?
Pretty damned well. George forced himself not to grin when he heard her get up, go to the coffee maker, and then return to his side where she poured the hot liquid into his cup.
When she was sitting down again he put away the paper and said, "Alright, baby girl. Here's what's going on. You're gonna go to school today. You're gonna pay attention in your classes. You're gonna tell anyone who asks that you went home early yesterday 'cause of a family emergency. If they want details you tell 'em your former step-mom got into a car wreck.
"What you're not going to do," he said intently, "is tell anyone, not a soul, about what you did last night. Are we clear?"
"Yes," she whispered back.
He nodded. "Good. 'Cause you know, no one else would understand. They'd say I was a pervert, a rapist, or somthin'. They wouldn't understand that what I'm doing is for your own good. Do you know what they would do?"
Amy shook her head.
"They'd throw me in prison. I'd go to prison and you'd go into foster care. You'd end up going from foster-family to foster-family, and what's more, you'd still be an uncontrolled slut. You'd end up pregnant, diseased. You'd end up on the street giving blowjobs for drugs. You hear me?"
She nodded again.
"Alright then," he finished.
When his second cup of coffee was empty, it was time to go. He drove his daughter to school and marveled at what a wonderful fucking day it was. The weather was cold, but winter was finally breaking. The sky was clear and sunny. And he had his daughter completely under his sway. Nothing could ruin the happiness he felt, a happiness he hadn't felt in years, if ever.
Until he got to work, that is.
The current jobsite his crew was working on was an old, dilapidated mini-mall they were charged with demolishing. George always enjoyed demolition jobs, but this one was taking a longer than expected and some bureaucratic bullshit was getting in the way of the work. The site happened to be located across the street from an inner-city junior high school, and bleeding heart environmentalists were concerned that dropping the structure all at once might spew asbestos into the air, poisoning the young kids across the way. Of course, there was no asbestos in the building. Anyone who knew anything about construction knew this, but that didn't keep the liberals from demanding the site be taken apart piece by piece instead of all at once, just to be "on the safe side". It was bullshit.
As George pulled into the gravelly area reserved for the crew's parking he noticed his supervisor, the fat son of a bitch, leaning against a low brick wall and staring across the street. Classes were just beginning, George figured. That fatass was always staring at the schoolyard when classes were beginning or ending. Fucking pervert loved to stare at the young teenage colored girls in their slutty, hip hop outfits.
George climbed out of his truck and started making his way to the wall that should have come down days ago. His co-workers were already at work and the sound of heavy machinery and the smell of dust and broken concrete filled the air. He was late, maybe an hour, but it shouldn't be a big deal.
"TORCH!"
George tensed in anger at the sound of his boss' voice. He stopped and turned and sure enough the pervert had caught up to him.
"In my office NOW!" the red-faced piece of shit growled.
The "office" was actually a trailer set up for the lazy s.o.b.'s who supposedly oversaw the actual work. George followed his supervisor inside and saw the fat bastard walk around his desk, sit down, and glare.
"You're off this job, Torch," the round-faced asshole said. "You're off this job, you're off this crew, you're outta work. You hear me?!"
George's eyes went wide with anger. "What the fuck you talking about?" he demanded.
"I wrote you up," the little shit grinned. "Not just for that shit you pulled yesterday, neither. I've been writing you up for weeks, every time you've been late or left early or did a piss-poor job. Assaulting me was the final straw—even your fucking union won't stand behind that. You're out."
George rubbed his jaw. He was seeing red but there was nothing he could do about it. Fact was he'd completely forgotten about pushing his supervisor to the ground the day before—he'd been blind with rage at the time. If what the shit was saying was true, he wasn't going to have much to appeal on.
Even so he said defiantly, "I'm gonna challenge this shit. You hear me? Twenty years counts for something you son of a bitch! The union will demand—."
"They're not going to demand shit," the round tub of lard grinned triumphantly. "I've got witnesses: you assaulted me. I got reports going back for months of your slacking. I have a paper-trail and evidence that I've played this all by the book. What have you got? Huh? What do you got?"
Visions of bankruptcy filled George's head. There was no way a 50-something, uneducated 'vet like him could find work paying anything close to this job. He wouldn't even receive unemployment: the great state of Ohio would say he was fired with cause. He had some money saved, sure, but how long could it last? Shit, the slow winter months had already taken their strain on his savings. Spring was near, work would pick up, he'd be all right again if he could just work through it. Maybe an early retirement could follow.
"Listen," George forced himself to say, hating the sound of defeat in his voice, "I fucked up. I've had family issues, see? Just give me a few more months and I'll--".
"I don't give a rat's ass about your 'family issues'!" the smug little shit grinned. "You've been a pain in my ass since I took over supervising this crew, and now you're gonna pay for it. I don't want you here, Torch. Now get the fuck out and go home."
George didn't know what to say. Just like that, twenty-some years of hard work was coming to an end. He could protest to the Union, but he knew that the best case scenario would be restricted pay until a hearing was convened. He'd lose at the hearing. He knew this. He'd crossed the line when he'd pushed the fat douchebag into the dirt. If it'd only been that he might have been okay, but truth was he had been coming in late a lot lately.
It was over.
"My daughter... ," George said without thinking.
"I don't care about her. She ain't my problem," he replied. "That sympathy shit won't work on me, Torch. Get out."
He was leafing through some kind of report now, acting as though George wasn't there. George was thinking deeply. He didn't have much time. It was now or never. He didn't have a choice.
"No," George said after a moment. "I mean... I ain't asking for pity. I just figure, maybe we can come to a deal."
The fat lard stopped. Slowly he looked up from his papers. "What kind of deal could you possibly make?"
"I seen the way you looked at her, when she stopped by a few weeks ago," George said quickly. "But maybe you didn't see her right, you know? Maybe if you saw her right, you'd give me a second chance. For her sake."
"Her sake," the supervisor repeated, leaning back now in his chair, the report he'd been leafing through forgotten. There was an unquestionable look of interest in his eyes, but he was playing dumb. "And how do you propose I see her 'right', Torch? Looking at baby photos, hearing your sad tale about her step-mommy leaving ya'll last year?"
"No," George simmered. Forcing himself to remain calm he continued, "What I mean is... come over to the house with me. I got some pictures I think... I think they'd change your mind."
He was definitely curious, George could tell. But he was suspicious, too. "You really think these pictures will make me feel sorry for her, make me withdraw my request you be fired? You really think that?"
Through clenched teeth George replied, "Yes, I do."
"Go home, Torch," his supervisor said after a moment. "Let me think about it. I'll be there within the hour if I decide to... well, give you a second chance."
With that he returned to his papers. George couldn't tell if he'd really gotten through to him. He wasn't sure if his idea was a good one, either. But he had nothing else to say or do. He wasn't about to beg. He couldn't protest anymore. And he was afraid to be more obvious about what he was suggesting. So George Torch turned and slowly walked out of the trailer, his hardhat clenched tightly in one hand.
Several of his co-workers, longtime friends and associates, began to approach him as he exited the office. But George paid them no mind. He had things to think over. He went to his truck and drove home.
"Unfortunately, George, if what you're saying is true I'm not sure there's much that can be done," his Union Rep told him over the phone. "Anything else could be disputed, what with your family circumstances and all. But the fact is an assault on your super taints that."
George breathed into the phone. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't expected much, but he hated having his fears confirmed.
"Look, George," the Rep continued, "maybe we get you into some anger management classes right away. Demonstrate you've had problems, but you're working on them. That might give us a leg to stand on."
"Will that let me keep working?" George asked tightly. "In the meantime at least?"
A long pause was followed with the answer George expected. "These things... well, they don't usually pan out that way. But we can definitely give it a shot. It's better than nothing, right?"
"Sure," George replied after a pause. Without another word he hung up the phone.
He gulped at his beer. It was after ten, now, and almost eleven. His piece of shit supervisor hadn't come over. Apparently he hadn't taken the bait. And George's Union Rep had just confirmed everything: nothing could be done.
He swallowed up the rest of his bottle and cracked open another. What was he going to do? Get a job flipping hamburgers?
There was one option. He could go to Amy's mother. Her mother's family, at least, and demand some money. They'd probably pay good money, too. But the thought of going to them, going back on his word, disgusted him. For 14 years they'd been out of his life. For 14 years he'd proven Amy's mother wrong. How could he go to them now, hat in hand, begging for cash?
Suddenly the doorbell rang.
George stood up cautiously. It was totally possible that some door-to-door salesman was to blame for the ring. He didn't want to get his hopes up. But as he grew closer to the door he could clearly see through his living room window a Ford F350 parked in front of his house. It had to be him.
The little shit seemed annoyed when George opened the door. "Alright, I'm here," he said. "I know this is probably a waste of time, but you got me curious. Where are these pictures that are supposed to make me feel so sorry for you that I let you keep your job?"
"Come in, I'll show you," George replied.
He began to step into the house and then stopped. "Just so you know," he said, "I told Harvey I was coming here to talk with you. I also told him that if he didn't hear from me within the hour he should call the cops."
George met his short, squat boss' stare and then said, "I ain't killed no one since the war. Ain't gonna start again now."
"Fair enough," the shit replied. "Just so we understand each other."
George led the man up the stairs without a word. When they got to his bedroom George sat down in his desk chair and booted up his computer. His boss stood to his right, obviously annoyed.
"This better be worth my time, Torch," he said. "I got work to do, and some of us actually care about that."
"You think my girl's pretty?" George asked through clenched teeth as he logged into his system.
"Sure," the piece of shit admitted. "Why not? Most kids are cute, that's why they're kids."
"I mean," George said, suddenly looking up from his sitting position into his boss' eyes, "you think she's really pretty, right?"
The piece of shit studied him a moment. "Just show me what you're gonna show me, Torch," he finally replied. "I don't got all day."
With that, George fired up a video he'd captured of his daughter. The video had been taken about two weeks ago, and was similar to many he had saved onto his hard drive. It began with her entering her bedroom.
"I thought she was on drugs so I had Leroy's brother install surveillance," George explained flatly.
His supervisor didn't respond. He was too enraptured with the video he was watching.
In it, young 14-year-old Amy Torch was peeling off her shirt. When it was off, she kicked off her shoes and then unbuckled her belt. Moments later her jeans were off, too, and she began to unbuckle her bra. The quality of the clip was exquisite. George was able to zoom in to give his boss a perfect view. And then he paused it, just before his little girl's tits were exposed.
"Keep it going," the piece of shit said.
"No," George replied. "Promise me my job, first."
The sound of his boss' laughter surprised George.
"You think a few seconds of your girl undressing would save your job?" he laughed. "Give me a break! I mean, Jesus, you're offering nude video of your daughter, your own fucking daughter, to save your job? I can see this kinda shit any day I want, Torch!"
"But you know her," George steamed. "You've met her. Don't you want to see her strip?"
"Maybe, but it sure won't save your job," the smarmy son of a bitch grinned.
"What if I show you video of her fucking herself?" George replied with increasing frustration. "What about that?"
He shrugged. "Dunno. Doubt it. Like I said I can see it whenever I want, shit like that. Can't ever have it, but I can watch it, you know?"
George tensed. He knew exactly what his supervisor was hinting at, now.
"Maybe," the supervisor finally said after a long moment, "I could have her come over to my place this weekend, though."
"What for?" George demanded.
"I have chores that need doing," he replied. "My basement is a mess. Keep telling my boys to do it, but well, you know teenage boys are these days. Won't listen to their old man. Maybe your Amy could do it instead."
George mulled this over. "If she did," he asked, "would you let me keep working?"
"Depends on the job she did, Torch," the fat bastard replied. He was obviously talking in code, now. "If she does a great job, I might be able to find it in my heart to withdraw my complaints against you. If she does a less than stellar job, though... well, I guess I'd have to assume she's just the spoiled brat of a loser father."
George clenched his fists. The video he had saved on his computer of his daughter obviously didn't interest his boss. He wanted more. But was he willing to send his little girl over to his place, to do "chores"?
"How about it, Torch?" the fat fuck asked. "Send her over on Saturday and if she does a good job, not only will I let you keep your job, I won't report you to the police."
"Police!" George growled. "What the FUCK are you talking 'bout?"
"These videos," the supervisor grinned. "That's child pornography right there. Sick shit, man."
More than anything in the world George wanted to pound his supervisor's fat face into oblivion right now, but that wasn't going to happen. He'd just dug himself into a hole and there was no going back.
"Saturday at noon," he finally seethed. "She'll be there for the... chores."
"Make it ten," the supervisor replied, patting George on the back. "And she stays all day."
George reluctantly nodded his head. Once he did his supervisor said, "Great, it's a deal then. But until our... transaction is complete, consider yourself on leave."
George watched the fat asshole walk out of his room. He heard him descend the stairs. He went to the window and watched him drive off.
Okay, he thought. Either he was fucked or his daughter was fucked.
And his daughter was used to getting fucked.