Just wait until I got my tongue on her.

Got my cock inside her.

In due time, I reminded myself as my balls throbbed with the need for release.

And that time wasn't that night.

Or two nights later at the movie theater.

Or the next week at the park.

The bowling alley.

The carnival.

She changed slowly over those weeks, too.

Became less timid, less easily cowed.

She grew bolder around me, unafraid to speak her mind, to tease me, to take risks, to live a little finally.

She talked more too, opened up about her upbringing. About their neglect, about how she was invisible to her father until she did something that displeased him, for which she'd earn a vicious beating.

I wasn't against a swatting here or there when it was earned, had known the feeling of a tanned hide more than a few times growing up as well. From a father or grandfather who loved me, who wanted to mold my behavior into that of a man, not a little boy, who would not abide disrespect or bad behavior.

But it was different for Helen.

It wasn't a hard lesson out of love.

It was pure punishment.

It was a grown man's rage against a little girl who had no power to defend herself.

I had to physically curl my hands into the steering wheel to avoid hitting something when she told me about the time she came home late, was caught by her brother, and her father had come into a teenaged girl's bedroom, yanked down her pants and underwear, and whipped her ass so badly that she couldn't sit down for days.

There was discipline and there was abuse.

It wasn't a thin line.

It was a very fucking defined one with caution tape and goddamn barricades showing you where one ended and the other began.

And Christopher Eames disregarded all of them to viciously abuse his daughter.

I worried after about how she explained coming home late since meeting me, how she managed to stay under their radar.

Some nights, Helga would simply cover for her, say she was in bed already with a migraine when we had the sense to drop her car home, then have her sneak out with me.

Other nights, she boldly walked in the door, telling her fucking nosy ass brother that she was an adult, and didn't have to answer to him.

I liked that she was coming into her own, finding her spine, finding her voice.

I wasn't so sure that I liked that she was using it to stand up to her brother - this man who made her father look like a goddamn Good Samaritan.

She assured me it was fine, that he had stopped even saying anything, that he was just letting it go.

He wasn't letting it go.

And that was what had me worried.

But I was too goddamn selfish to do anything about it. She should have been long gone. I should have been the one demanding it, if I claimed to care for her at all - and I did - but I couldn't make myself do it.

I didn't want to lose her.

That selfishness would be my undoing.

I didn't think anything of it.

When the meeting was called.

The orders were the same as any I had ever gotten.

I got a date and a time and a description of a man to beat the shit out of as a warning. Second warning, so it was going to be pretty brutal.

I'd say I had to steel my stomach for it, but that would be a lie. I wouldn't try to make myself sound like a better person than I was. I beat the shit out of people for a living. And I did it without remorse or a guilty conscience, or even any hesitation at all.

It was a job.

That was all.

If you didn't want your ass beat, you shouldn't get involved with people like Christopher Eames.

But I had no idea, no gut instinct, no nothing that something was wrong as I drove to the location, parked my car, got out, and walked into the abandoned warehouse out on the outskirts of town.

This was just another job.

Just another abandoned building where some guy would be tied up for me.

There was nothing unusual.

I didn't hear anyone.

I didn't see anyone.

But I sure as fuck felt someone when there was a sudden explosion of pain to the back of my head. There was enough pressure behind the strike to make me fall forward, my knees crashing down onto the crumbling, uneven cement floors, sending another type of pain ricocheting through my body.

"Fuck," I hissed, trying to think past the pain so I could push up, get up, turn around, fight.

You knew you had been in the business for a while when you knew the exact sound of a metal pipe clattering to the ground behind you.

A metal pipe.

I was lucky to still be conscious.

And even then, I didn't know.

Tags: Jessica Gadziala Mallick Brothers Erotic
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