18: DADDY’S BRAT

The alley was my church, and tonight, I was ready for communion. The smell of piss and rotting garbage was my incense.

I kicked the dumpster, the clang drifting like a fucked-up dinner bell. Another night, another shift serving overpriced whiskey to men who thought my smile was an invitation to grab my ass.

My skin still crawled from the last asshole's invasive touch.

And then I saw him.

Him.

Leaning against that stupidly expensive black car, suit looking like it cost more than my life. Silver at his temples, eyes like a fucking shark.

My favorite regular. The one who never said more than "neat" when ordering his bourbon, but whose gaze burnt through my skin all night.

Every time I turned around, those cold, calculating eyes were on me, stripping me bare, seeing right through the "tough server" act to the raw, restless nerve-endings underneath.

My heart did a traitorous little thump-thump. Game on.

I tossed the trash bag with more force than necessary, the plastic splitting and spilling its guts onto the asphalt.

"Well, well," I drawled, propping a hand on my hip, putting on a bravado I didn't fully feel. "Lost, old man? The retirement home's that way."

He didn't smile. He never smiles. He just pushed off the car, and the air got thick, like before a storm.

He took two slow strides forward, closing the distance without seeming to even move fast.

"You have a unique way of dealing with patrons," he said, his voice a sweet, deep baritone. "The eye-rolling. The muttered insults under your breath when you thought I couldn't hear."

I crossed my arms, a flimsy shield. "Maybe you just have shitty hearing. What's your excuse for stalking me?"

"My excuse," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "is that I find your performance tiresome." His gaze was a laser, pinning me in place. "The brittle defiance. The constant, screaming need for a reaction. You're not a bitch. You're a brat. And brats..."

He was in front of me then, his hand moving so fast I didn't have time to flinch. It didn't go for my throat.

It went for my hair, fisting in the roots at the back of my head, yanking just enough to make my eyes water and arch my spine towards him.

The shock of it, the sheer, unapologetic dominance, stole my breath.

"...brats," he finished, his face inches from mine, "are screaming for a very specific kind of attention. A specific kind of breaking. They need to be taught a lesson."

A violent, full-body shiver tore through me. My nipples tightened to aching points against my cheap tank top.

Fuck him. Fuck him for seeing right through the armor to the desperate, submissive core of me that craved this exact thing.

"Maybe I just like the sound of my own voice," I shot back, but my voice was thin, breathy, betraying me.

"I know what you like," he countered, his other hand sliding down my back, over my ass, his palm connecting with a sharp, stinging spank.

The pain was immediate, bright, and sent a jolt of pure, undiluted lust straight to my cunt. I gasped, the sound ripped from me.

"Count," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Tears of shame and overwhelming sensation pricked my eyes.

"Fuck you," I hissed, the last vestige of my defiance.

Spank. Harder this time. The sting bloomed into a deep, throbbing heat that spread through my whole body.

"One!" I bit out, my cheeks flaming.

Spank. "Two!"

He didn't stop. He spanked me until I lost count, until my ass was on fire and my bratty defiance was crumbling into a puddle of desperate, wet need.

I was panting, my forehead falling against the cool brick, my fingers scrabbling for purchase as my body melted under his punishment.

"Please," I whimpered, and I didn't even know what I was asking for.

"Please, what?" His voice was a dark caress in the dark alley. He knew. The bastard always knew.

"More," I breathed, hating myself, loving the fall.

He spun me around, his belt already unbuckled, the sound of his zipper the most dirty and anticipated thing I'd ever heard. He didn't kiss me. He didn't even look at my face.

His gaze was locked on my body, on the prey he'd cornered and conquered.

He hooked his fingers in my panties and ripped them, the sound of tearing lace lost under my filthy moan.

Then he was pressing against me, his cock thick and hungry. He spat into his hand, slicking himself, the act so vulgar it made my knees buckle.

“This what you wanted, you little slut? To get railed in a filthy alley by a stranger?"

Before I could answer, he drove into me. One brutal, fucking thrust that buried him to the hilt.

I screamed, the sound torn from my throat, my body stretching to take him, the burn and the fullness a perfect, depraved agony.

"God, you're tight," he groaned, his hips flush against my sore ass. "Like you were built for my cock."

He didn't wait for me to adjust. He slammed into me, pound after pound, the wet slap of our skin a filthy soundtrack. His hand fisted in my hair again, yanking my head back, exposing my throat.

"You gonna come for me, baby girl?" he growled, his breath hot in my ear. "Gonna cream all over this dirty old man's dick?"

"Yes," I sobbed, my body coiling tight, my orgasm a live wire about to snap. "Daddy, please, I'm gonna—"

His hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my scream as my climax detonated. It was blinding, violent, my cunt clenching around him in frantic, milking pulses that ripped a guttural groan from his chest.

He fucked me through it, his thrusts turning ragged, and then he stilled, burying himself deep as he came, his own release hot and endless inside me.

For a single, suspended moment, he held me there, pinned between his body and the wall, both of us panting. I felt his cock twitch inside me, the last of his cum leaking out.

Then it was over.

He pulled out of me with a wet, final sound. He didn't kiss my forehead. He didn't tuck me in. He simply stepped back, tucked his soft, spent cock back into his expensive slacks, and zipped up.

I slumped against the wall, a boneless, used-up heap. My ass throbbed. My cunt ached. Cum was already trickling down my thigh.

He looked down at me, his expression hard to read. The shark-like calm was back. He reached into his breast pocket, and for an insane second, I thought he might hand me his card. A "call me."

Instead, he pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

He folded it neatly and tucked it into the torn waistband of what was left of my panties. His fingers brushed my burning skin.

Then he turned and walked away. His shoes clicked on the pavement, the sound fading until it was swallowed by the city's hum.

I was alone. Sticky, sore, and completely shattered. The neon sign flickered, casting a sickly glow on the hundred dollars tucked into my underwear. Payment for services rendered.

And the worst part? The most depraved, fucked-up part?

As I lay there in the grime, the scent of him and sex and garbage filling my lungs, I knew with a sick, thrilling certainty that I'd be back tomorrow night. Waiting. Hoping he'd come to collect his brat again.