We headed out for dinner after he’d pissed on me. I swallowed most of it, the rest he did over my face and into my hair, which had lacquered on the walk downtown and now hung over my eyes in taught, bolshie curls like I was some sort of wanna-be teen movie star.

The place he chose was on west eighty-sixth, and it struck me as the sort of schizophrenic diner that serves suits and soccer moms by day and hookers and suicidal loners by night - with neither ulterior group having any clue of the others part in its twenty four hour, seven day per week story.

We were the contradiction to the rule, of course. In truth, I didn’t actually know what he did as I’d never thought to ask, and his cursory air had made it clear from the outset what I was going to be to him - which was pretty much everything I’d hoped for and wanted.

I’m not even sure we were really there for dinner, though he insisted the burgers were the best for ten blocks. I asked him to order for me, to choose whatever he wanted me to eat.

His blue eyes sparkled as I pressed the menu back into the voluptuous waitress’s hands. She smiled. It was vacuous, the sort of heaving, faked effort that illuminated the chunk of three hours old gum that swirled turgidly around her mouth like dirty laundry at an aging launderette.

She probably thought I was his daughter, but only after first disregarding us as hooker and John. I didn’t blame her for that - it was way past two a.m. and here’s a guy in his fifties taking a girl in her teens to a slum diner.

Yeah, we took in a show.

A few of the disconsolate and lost looked up from beneath their own personal nightmares. I hadn’t realised I’d shouted it aloud, but they soon turned away again.

The waitress seemed to brush it off as teenage petulance, flashing me one of those laconic smiles that suggest to meaning well but is actually so patronising. Maybe it was genuine, it was hard to tell with all the acid and weed I’d ingested. Or maybe she felt my attitude matched my piss streaked hair. Yeah, that was it - I was the absconding daughter. Maybe Daddy had just rescued me from a needle in the arm inside some squalid nearby flat, prior to a gang bang that I’d have been mostly comatose through, and had brought me to the diner for a stiff talking to. Quit drugs, stay in school, and all that.

She wasn’t unattractive for a woman significantly closer to his years than mine. She had a buxom, heavy chested figure, the sort that looks better out of clothes and often features prominently on amateur porn sites where the selfie taker’s emphasis can be on the voluminous frontage being crammed into a small square image.

Love.

I started imagining her with his fat dick in her mouth. She’d love it. I could smell it in every fibre of her being. She was the sort that would groan desperately with doe eyes rolling to the back of her skull in ecstatic gratitude, and all because he’d used her like a piece of meat. I totally got that, because he’d spent the preceding three hours doing exactly that to me, and I’d been ever so grateful to him for it too.

I thought of him beating her, of how she’d be on all fours with her saggy udders sweeping back and forth across the wood-paneled floor under the duress of his physicality - and all the time she’d be begging for more as he lashed her huge ass with a nine tails until searing red welts grimaced in streaks of crimson across its wobbling expanse.

She’d thank him afterwards. And in that moment if he’d asked for fifty dollars out of her purse, to tide him over until next time, she’d have given it to him, and allowed herself to believe, just for a few hours, that she’d actually see him again.

The door whooshed and the night’s cool breeze scuttled through the diner. A man stood barely upright in the doorway, with his arms out like he was walking a tightrope between skyscrapers in a hurricane. He was wearing cheap, dirt-caked jeans, a t-shirt, and the sort of parka jacket you get given by charity workers when they find you out cold in a box under a bridge. Dried spittle clung to the edges of his mouth, his bloodshot eyes rolled like dulled marbles and he groaned something about ‘Marty.’ - ‘Has anyone seen Marty?’

No one answered, most didn’t even bother to look up, and he staggered back out the door. Someone do him a favour and put a bullet in his head, I thought to myself, and then turned my thoughts back to the waitress.

I guessed she was the sort that ‘wasn’t one to judge’ - or at least prefaced all of her judgments with that statement. I decided that I’d want her to be like that with me, like all maternal. It was the way she’d sized me up - from how she glanced at my braless tits as I left them to their own inept struggle with the plunging front of my capacious cotton dress. Then there was the knowing disapproval that I’d rocked up to the diner in my school issue thigh highs, wearing grubby, laceless sneakers. But it would always come back to the dress - one so short that when I bent over you could see the glistening shimmer of my arousal sparkling on the bald lips of my young, bare cunt. I smirked to myself. He’d nailed my panties to the bedroom wall of his apartment, right before he’d nailed me. 

‘That’s art baby, that’s art.’ - was what he’d said.

She’d pretend to be different, to be the responsible mom - but for all her good intentions she wouldn’t be able to help herself. She’d have me out back somewhere, maybe the janitor’s closet, slouched on a slightly broken chair with my legs spread as she voraciously sucked on my clit and told me in impassioned groans how beautiful it was to see a young woman with such flared labia. And then she’d beg me to cum for her, and I would.

I couldn’t tell whether I found her attractive, or just liked the idea of it. She certainly kept herself reasonable, with cheap fake red nails and a mane of blonde hair that she wore swept back off her face. But the makeup, only a bit of soft lippy and some mascara to daffy up her features, was the giveaway. She didn’t want to look too good on a night shift in a diner frequented by whores, addicts and psychotics. Smart. But she was proud, she wasn’t going to rock up to work looking like a bag of shite either. I felt for her - it must have been a hard balance to strike.

They started chatting. He was flirting with her. I liked that. It made me feel cheap. She liked it too. My guess was that he was the first sober, handsome, amenable guy she’d seen on a shift in decades.

She’d fuck him, right after her shift, if he wanted. It’s always in their eyes. She didn’t look away or try to break contact, instead, she allowed the conversation’s continuance with a genuine smile and a subconscious brush of her cheek.

No wedding ring.

I was broke, but if I’d had any money I’d have put it all on her being divorced, probably twice over, with three kids, all from the first disaster - which would have been a five-year stretch to a guy she’d known in high school who wore white sleeveless vests around the house, held down a blue-collar job, drank heavily due to his unhappiness, and had started beating her for it about eight months in. The second one she’d believed was different, but she’d held back on any kids with him, just in case, and sure enough, the just in case had proved unerringly accurate. 

Somehow she’d come out of both marriages worse off than the men she’d shared them with. She often wondered how that could be, and lamented inwardly that she was too nice, that she should have stood up for herself more, and that Cassy Delorio had gotten the car and the house when she’d divorced.

Fuck Cassy Delorio. She was such a bitch anyway.

I felt for her. She’d tried to do it right, to be the good wife, and somehow it had still all gone wrong.

She hadn’t been laid in a while, like a proper while. I could smell that on her too. And she’d never been fucked how she’d fantasised. That was the difference in our generations. I was seventeen and had already begun searching out my depraved needs - hers was the generation where porn meant fat men fucking thin chicks, just so men could get off without feeling insecure. Women's needs or wants? Pah, go fuck yourself! So she’d sworn off guys a long time ago. Who could blame her?

But suddenly here was a guy who’d do it properly. She sensed it. Women can. Because we crave it.

He knew what she was just as much as I did, like a shark sensing blood in the water. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t ever told anybody that she got off on the idea of being screwed violently while bent double with the sole of a foot pressed into her cheek - He knew.

His eyes gave away the salivating inner thoughts of a predator sensing prey. What was he thinking? Was it how he’d do her with her head down a fucking toilet? Or how he’d beat the bitch, cum on her face, do everything - Yeah, as fate tossed the three of us together that night, we all knew what she was.

‘My problem…’ She drawls in a thick Irish Bostonian accent, ‘Is that all the men I’ve known previously were violent, but in all the wrong ways. Let me tell you - two marriages of shitty lays and quick fists ain’t no party. No sir.’

She didn’t actually say that, or at least I don’t think she did. The acid was kicking in hard and things had gotten hazy, but whether she actually said it or not it didn’t matter - it was the truth. No fucking question.

And the man who’d just strolled into her diner wasn’t like those men she’d signed off on. He wasn’t like the guy passed out on his stool at the counter, or the pimp that just barged in, stared out the premises, and shimmied off just as quickly. He was different, and she knew it. In truth, it wasn’t hard. He didn’t walk like a guy that had a broom handle up his ass, for starters. His teeth were white, his stubble designer, rather than the life of hardship affirming, and he wore immaculate black trousers and a matching silk shirt with pristine brogues and a belt that cost more than she’d earn in the shift she was slaving through.

It was a nice belt too. He’d beaten my porcelain white cheeks black and blue with it about an hour earlier, right before he’d plunged his thick veiny ten-inch dream into my beaten virgin ass without so much as a swab of lube to ease the hardship.

Thank you, Daddy.

I said it aloud. She looked at me with that patronisingly ‘awwh cute’ face and flunked off to get us corr-fee. I watched her ass sway as she moved. Maybe he’d have both of us. And maybe afterwards he’d let me eat her cunt and then suckle on her huge, sagging tits while I cried like a needy child.

Can I have a Mummy too? Please, Daddy?

It was a vicious dose of acid - the sort that came in waves, like a rollercoaster suddenly lurching upwards at great speed, churning my guts and spinning my mind into an even hazier state of blurred light and ass tracers.

She came back with the corr-fee jug and poured us some. He winked at her and emptied a generous dose of whisky into the cheap white mug sitting in front of me, and then did the same to his. I took a spoon and started to stir the black, pungent brew. The spoon was bending all over the freaking place - no matter what I tried I couldn’t keep the thing upright.

Their conversation hummed in the background like a sweet accompaniment to my thoughts, every part of which was an obsession over the notion of having his massive Daddy cock buried deep in my pussy.

You gotta fuck my cunt too daddy. Will you? Please, daddy. It's so tight, like teen girl tight. I want you to break me. I want to have that special secret from the next man.

But it wasn’t my place to ask, even though part of me hoped he’d insist on using the diner’s seedy restroom and fuck me over the sink with my head pressed up against the cracked mirror - all as the light fizzed in and out of luminescence with some fat guy staggering in and watching us after pissing all over the floor in front of a urinal.

That was why I’d flown to Boston, all the way from a small town so far away - just so the man I’d met on the internet, who was old enough to be my father, could be my abusive Daddy - even if it was just for one drug-soaked weekend.

What of it motherfuckers?

I laughed raucously aloud. Because I’d realised we weren’t the contradiction to the rule at all. I was an addict - maybe not like the waifs and strays lurking sorrowfully in the brightly lit corners of our shared personal refuge, but an addict chasing a hit nonetheless.

And as for him? Well, he was what I needed him to be at that moment in time. It’s that whole, who’s using who thing - it’s never as clear cut as people think.

So that was Boston, which happened way back before everything else I’ve told you about.

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