Page 10 of Retribution


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Once again, I find myself wearing a too revealing dress, this time in ruby. Black heels studded in matching crystals adorn my feet, my unruly hair tamed into a low ponytail.

At precisely seven o’clock, the doorbell rings. Closing my eyes and letting out a long, shaky breath, I plaster a wide smile on my face as I open the door.

DaddyG69 bustles his way inside, his protruding stomach clearing the way before him. Sparse greying hair in a bad combover, yellowed teeth, and dirty fingernails complete the picture of my future master.

My stomach roils as he pulls me into a sweaty hug, foul pungent waves of body odor rolling off him. Struggling to hold back a gag, I pull myself away from him. He laughs and lets me go, smacking me on the ass as I turn away. Gritting my teeth so hard they emit a cracking noise, I keep my face averted so he can’t see the disgust I’m sure is shining brightly in my eyes.

“Nice little place you have here, darlin’,” he says with a whistle. Striding forward like he owns the place, he looks around with a shrewd eye. “So where’s your Papa at, sweetheart? We gots business to discuss.”

“Right this way,” I reply, ushering him towards the dining room. “Mister?”

He guffaws. Actually guffaws, like he’s some sort of cowboy from a time long past.

“Bill Green, little lady.” He sweeps into an awkward bow, his stomach preventing him from completing it, and his face goes red with embarrassment.

I throw him a small smile, placing my hand over my heart as if I’m delighted by his gallantry.

“But you can call me Daddy,” he continues with a wink.

Kill me now.

Gesturing to an empty seat, I reply, “Yes, Daddy. Now you just sit right here, and I’ll go call for Momma and Papa. We don’t want to let the food grow cold, right?”

His decaying teeth flash at me in what I assume is meant to be a smile. “No, siree, letting good food go to waste is a tragedy, if I do say so myself.”

I bet.

“Be right back, sugar,” I reply, rolling my eyes when I’m out of sight.

“Momma! Papa! Our guest is here,” I call up the stairs, going into the kitchen to make sure everything is ready. When a reply isn’t immediately forthcoming, I sigh and pick up a platter of hors d'oeuvres and a wire cheese slicer, pushing through the swinging doors ass first, balancing the bounty carefully so I don’t spill and make a mess.

Papa will be very angry with me if I do.

Standing behind Daddy, I reach around him, placing the platter in front of him. Setting my hands gently on his shoulders, I let my breath whisper against his ear.

“Here you go, Daddy. Papa will be down in a minute. Enjoy.”

Turning his head, he throws me a smile as his meaty hands scoop up the food, cramming them into his mouth. Crumbs spill from his lips, dropping onto the table and down his stomach.

A shudder works through me as I watch him, the rattle in my chest kicking up into a roar as I finger the wire cutter in my hands. Before I can think twice, it’s around Daddy’s neck, stretched tight. He throws his head back, eyes wide in terror and confusion, shock causing his mouth to fall open, the half-masticated food spilling forth. His arms wave frantically in the air, the ammonia-ridden stench of piss ripe in the room.

I watch in amusement as his face goes a deep red color, then a mottled purple, my arms and back straining to pull the wire even tighter. And then tighter still. Bracing myself, pulling my back further out, the wire finally agrees to do what I want, and blood sprays out beautifully over the table and walls as it cuts his neck open.

I don’t stop, taking a step back, then another, wrapping my hands tightly around the wooden handles, I twist them, over and over, before one mighty yank severs his head completely.

The floor shakes under my feet as a loud explosion echoes from outside. Slipping in the blood, I fall to the floor, landing beside Daddy’s head, his bulging eyes staring at me in condemnation.

And that is how he finds me—on the floor, laughing hysterically at the mangled head of the man that thought he could own me.

Chapter 7

Special Agent

Daniella “Dutch” Buchanan

Washington, D.C.

Plopping my knee-high Doc Martens onto the antique polished desk, I lean back in the chair, scoping out the room I’ve unexpectedly found myself in. It’s not often one finds themselves called into the Director’s office, and I’m curious to see what he wants of me.