Chapter 9: Big Brother
George couldn't believe it. Turned out he'd been right the entire time. Drugs? No, his little girl wouldn't do drugs. She would never want to become a junkie. But sex? Porn? Obviously his daughter had no qualms about becoming a little slut.
Become a slut? She's always been a slut! George kept reminding himself. Night after night he saw the evidence: her, on her bed, that crimson colored dildo of hers shoved deep between her legs. George had actually come home from work early after the first time, just to sneak into her room. His search revealed little he didn't already know about, of course, but when he actually saw the thing his girl had been fucking herself with the night before, well, in real life it seemed way too big for her to take. It was at least as big as his cock. She obviously liked them big.
And he'd watched her squirm on it for almost an hour, through the spy cameras he'd had installed.
The connection to the computer hadn't paid off much—what she had on there revealed little about the extent of his daughter's perversion, only a few short clips of porno movies and a bunch of text files George wasn't about to waste time reading through. But the cameras, those had definitely been worth it. They proved just how slutty a pervert his daughter was when she thought no one was watching.
Well, he was watching now. And what he saw was his 14-year-old girl brutalizing her cunt with a massive dildo, practically every night.
It'd been a week since he'd started watching. The first time, the very day the cameras had been installed, George couldn't believe it. He'd been angry. He'd nearly charged down the hall and demanded she stop. But then he'd realized that, if anything, her behavior simply proved that what he'd done to her months earlier was okay. After all, she was obviously a demented, sex-obsessed whore. So what if he'd fucked her? She probably would have enjoyed the first time had she been awake. As for the second time, he'd always suspected she'd enjoyed that, and now he was positive that she had.
As he watched his ripe looking girl do herself on her bed he would jerk off, sure. And on the third night of his spying, despite Eddy's warnings, he began to record her. Why not? No one would know, and it sure gave him great masturbation material. Besides, he wasn't going to do more than watch—he'd made a promise to God and to himself.
Still, it was hard to resist the temptations that went through him when he saw her fucking herself. Sometimes she did it on her knees on the floor, in the middle of the room, doing herself from behind with the rubber monster and occasionally slapping her own ass while she did. Other times he'd see her pert, just pubescent body on her bed, her legs spread wide, her tits jiggling enticingly while she rammed herself with the thing and moaned and panted in shameless lust.
It was all just... incredible. How could she do this to herself almost every night? What went through her head when she did this? What kind of degraded, perverted thoughts could keep a nasty little slut like her going for so long, so often, so actively?
I need to fuck that again, he often told himself. But he couldn't. He'd made a promise. He risked everything if he did. But still...
"Torch!"
George turned his head away from the 2 x 4 he was supposed to be cutting.
"What's the matter, Torch?" his short, squat little shit of a supervisor demanded as he waddled toward him. "What the fuck are you doing just standing there?!"
"Sorry, boss," George said tightly. He hated this man passionately. He was a miserable little shit, with his white shirt and cheap tie and ornamental hard-hat—he was one of those middle-class failures who somehow found jobs bossing grunts like him around.
"You've been fucking up a lot lately, Torch," the piece-of-shit said. "You better get your act together. I'm tired of this lazing around bullshit, you hear me!"
George glared at the small round man but rather than say what he wanted he turned back to his saw, which immediately drowned out the piece-of-shit's voice when it fired to life.
God, what a fucking asshole, George thought. But the worst thing was that the dickwad was right: he had been screwing up. This morning, for instance, he'd been late to work. Earlier that week he'd left early. And today he'd been assigned an easy task, to help cut 100 crossbeams to specification, but still he was way behind.
It's that slut-of-a-whore brat's fault, he thought angrily. His fingers tightened around the handles of the blade. Thoughts of her and her tight little body and slutty fucking behavior was blocking out all reason.
The asshole left him alone, eventually. But at around three that afternoon one of his co-workers, a buddy of his, interrupted his work. Apparently the brat herself, his daughter, had stopped by the worksite. George pulled off his dusty gloves and followed his friend toward the front of the construction site. Sure enough, there she was.
She was garbed in her winter-outfit, the leather coat and earmuffs, but she still looked like she was freezing. Stupid girl, George thought. She was too thin and frail for weather like this, and was obviously more concerned with showing off her body than staying warm.
"Whadda you want?" he asked her shortly.
"I-- need my allowance," she said through chattering teeth. "Y—you said to stop by after school..."
That's right, George suddenly remembered. That morning she'd asked for her bi-weekly cash allowance, but he'd been way short. Since this current job was so close to her school he'd told her to stop by after class, that he'd hit the bank during his lunch hour. But he'd forgotten to go to the bank. Instead he had spent lunch the way he always did: hanging with his buddies at a comfortable spot, in this case a bar two blocks over from where they currently labored.
"Don't got it," he said to the girl. "I'll have it tonight."
"Daddy!" she pleaded. "I need it! I, didn't I tell you? I'm... going to the movies. And I need to get groceries, and I'm totally broke!"
"What's going on, Torch?"
It was the asshole again. Jesus Christ, did he have it in for him or what?
"Nothing," he growled at the dwarfish man. "My daughter was just leaving."
George watched with growing anger as his dipshit boss suddenly changed his attitude upon sight of the little girl. His whole body language relaxed, and George knew why: he was eying her like some pervert.
"Oh, excuse me," he said, his sincerity obviously fake. George stared at his boss' eyes but they weren't looking at him. He followed his gaze down to their target.
Despite her obvious cold, his little slut-of-a-brat had her coat unzipped to her belly. More concerned with looking like a slut, he thought again. Her round, firm teenage tits were bulging from the shirt she wore beneath, and her cleavage was on full display for George's disgusting boss.
"You know, Torch," the fucker said without looking away from Amy's teenage titties, "looks like you got some family issues to work out. Why don't you take the rest of the day off?"
"No," George insisted. "She's leaving."
"Nonsense," the fat asshole replied. "I'm a father, too. You've done enough today—go home and spend some time with your little girl." He gave Amy what George considered a suggestive little wink, and was ready to explode. He saw his boss' eyes gleaming with superiority, and he saw his daughter shyly smiling back at him.
And what was different about her smile? It was a small, slight upwards turn of the corners of her mouth, almost a polite smile, but there was something more there. Then he realized: her lips were slightly parted, too. He'd never seen her do that before. Why part her lips? Was it an invitation to the round tub of lard staring lascivious at her? If he wasn't here right now; if he'd gone home early from work, for instance. Would she be offering to blow him right now? Ask to use the phone in his office, maybe, then lean over his desk suggestively once they got inside the little work-trailer? Would his little girl be taking his boss' cock up her cunt if he weren't here to stop it?
"Let's go," he growled furiously, grabbing his daughter by the upper arm. He pulled her after him to the parking lot, to his truck.
On the way home George was seeing red. Obviously his daughter understood this, because she didn't risk saying a word. He swung the truck through a drive-through ATM and withdrew the maximum amount before bringing both him and his daughter home. She jumped out of the cab of the truck once they got there, and he quickly followed her inside. She was halfway up the stairs already. She was running away from him, he realized.
"STOP!" he called.
Obediently the girl froze in place halfway up the stairs.
"Don't you ever visit me at work again," he growled threateningly.
She was trembling. He could see it. He could also see that she wanted to argue with him but was too afraid. When she finally nodded her pretty little head she didn't speak a word.
"And you can stop dressing like a whore, too," he spat while thrusting his hand into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He opened it and tossed half its contents at the stairs.
"There's your fucking allowance," he said. She wasn't looking at the money, though, she was staring down at her clothes in disbelief.
"That shirt of yours," he explained angrily, "was too small for you a year ago and it sure as Hell's too small for you now!"
At that he turned around and threw open the door.
After slamming it shut, George could hear his greedy, slutty daughter rush down the stairs to claim her cash. She would probably spend it on more sex-toys, he thought, or for more trampy outfits. Who knew what she needed it for? Did it matter? For the last week she'd proven to him what a slut she was. And only the Lord knew what else she did outside her bedroom.
He got into his truck and gunned the engine. He wanted to get drunk and he had a wallet full of cash, so he headed to the Barely Luck Bar only a few miles away. For the next several hours he drank heavily at the titty-bar, trying to drown out the rage he felt over his daughter.