The Brat 1

8:10 Wednesday Evening

Enjoying my morning coffee, I hear her off-key singing as she comes down the stairs. With the slapping sound of her bare feet landing on the hard floors, I look over my newspaper and see her dance to music I can't hear.

She makes her way into the kitchen, pours herself a glass of orange-juice and makes herself some toast.

"You came in late last night."

"Uh."

"Take those damn things off!"

She makes a face at me. "What?"

"I said...take those damn things off!"

"What?" as she removes the headphones.

"I said, take those damn things off! It is really annoying that you use your iPod when you are walking around the house. Just turn on the stereo."

"Whatever."

I glare at her.

"Um, sorry."

"You came home late last night."

"I was out with Monique."

"I want you home early this evening."

"I have plans." Between bites of toast and slips of juice.

"Cancel 'em. You have been out late too much lately. You need to concentrate on your studies and you need your rest."

"But, I can't..."

"You had best be here when I get home."

"Jeezus." She whines.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, young lady. Is your homework done?"

"Yes," she replies in a snotty tone.

"You need to hurry up and get ready. That college is costing good money; I don't want you late."

"Ok, Ok"

"I have to get to the office."

"I need forty dollars" she yells as she runs up the stairs.

"What for?" My enquiry falls short as she shuts the door to the bathroom.

Leaving two twenty-dollar bills on the entry table, I grab my jacket and bag and head out the door.

7:45 Wednesday Evening

"Hello?" as I walk through the door.

Silence. Putting down my jacket and bag, I notice all the lights are on in the house.

"Hello!"

Again, no answer.

I head upstairs to take a shower. As I pull off my pants, my cell phone rings, alerting me to an inbound text message from her. I retrieve the message. "with monique home later."

"God damn brat." I say to myself.

I call her cell. She doesn't answer and it goes to voice mail.

"Hi, I got your text message. This morning I made it clear that you should be home this evening. I suggest that you head home now!"

I then text message her.

"u should b home"

I expressly told her to be home, she has blatantly disobeyed me and I am now pissed. But I know her, I am pretty certain where she will be around 10:30 this evening.

While showering, my thoughts are of her. Why does she do this? I try to provide an environment that is supportive, secure, and safe and give her the opportunities she deserves. Sometimes, I wonder if I make it too easy for her. Maybe she does not appreciate or respect me. Or as all young people do, is she just testing her limits.

As I prepare dinner, I wait for her call that never arrives. Communication is something that is important to me, of which she is well aware. It is a rare instance in which someone doesn't know what is going on in my mind. If anything, I may communicate too much. Sometimes I make mistakes, perhaps reacting quickly when staying back a bit may be the better course. Nevertheless, you would be hard-pressed to call me passive/aggressive.

It is 10:00 o'clock and I still have not heard from her. By now she should be at a club on 4th St. This is the most likely place to find her on a Wednesday evening. I pull on my boots, grab a jacket and head down to the garage. I start up the truck and exit the garage for the 10-minute drive to the club.

When I arrive at the club, outside there is a line people waiting to get in. There is no parking near the club; therefore, I need to double-park the truck. I turn on the flashers, get out of the truck and set the alarm.

Walking up to the bouncer guarding the entrance, I remove my driver's license from my wallet.

"You need to wait in line with everyone else." The bouncer says as I approach.

"Listen. My underage daughter is in there and I am going in to retrieve her. Here is my driver's license. I will be right out."

"I can't let you in."

"Listen, You let me in or I am going to call the police and Alcohol Enforcement and inform them that you have minors in your establishment."

"Ok, hurry up." He takes my license from me.

People in line complain about me getting in ahead of them.

I walk into the club. It is dark and very Goth. Nine Inch Nails - "Hand That Feeds" is playing over the speakers. The club is filled with three groups of people: pure Goth, the fetish crowd and vanilla metro-sexual 20 something males. The latter group, clad In their khakis and moussed hair stand out like I would at church. They come here to watch the S/M scenes, see the fetish chicks and maybe get their asses smacked by some Domme.

I scan the crowd looking for her or for Monique. I see Monique across the room near the bar. I know that the brat is not far away. Around Monique is a small crowd of vanilla boys, all vying for her attention. Out the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of her walking from the women's room.

No matter how she dresses, sluttily, fetishy, or classy, she is always beautiful. I remember the first time I saw her and how at that moment she became my definition of beauty. Sometimes, in a moment, everything changes.

She is wearing a dark red corset, black rubber pants and high heels and her hair is in a ponytail. She reaches the crowd of boys, Monique hands her a drink. I hang back for a bit to see what she does. She is just standing there sipping her drink and chatting with the boys.

I have always enjoyed watching her interact with people; to see her in a crowd at a club or party. She can hold court if she desires. I sometimes wonder who she really is: the bratty girl I see at home or the self-assured woman I see now? The truth? She is both.

Standing there, I almost get lost just watching her. One of the boys reaches over and touches her arm. Even from this distance, I can tell she is not happy with his touch as she recoils from him.

"Fuck that," I say to myself and I begin to make my way to her.

Weaving my way across the dance floor of spinning, death-faced dancers, I come up behind her. Monique sees me and her eyes grow large as I approach. I step between her and the boy that touched her and grabbing the brat by the shoulder, I spin her around. She appears extremely startled.

The boy that touched her steps into my space and speaks up.

"Hey old man, she is with me."

"No I am not. I just met him here," she quickly speaks up in disdain.

Looking at her intensely, I can tell that I have made her squirm.

"I swear I just met him."

"She did," Monique concurs.

Taking her drink from her and handing it to Monique, I step forward, backing the brat up against the wall with my face right in hers. With heels, she is only a couple of inches shorter than I. However, I still tower over her.

"Where are you supposed to be?"

"I texted you that I was going out with Monique."

"Wrong answer."

"I..." she tries again.

"Wrong answer. This morning where did I tell you to be this evening when I got home?"

"Home ...but ..."

"No buts. And I left a text message and voice mail reminding you where you were supposed to be."

"I guess, I couldn't hear my phone."

"Give me your phone."

"Why."

"Just give me your phone."

She reaches into her bag and hands me her phone. I scroll through her messages. She has retrieved both the voice mail and the text message.

"So you have no excuse for not being home except that you are a spoiled fucking brat."

"But..."

Again the boy speaks up: "Dude, ah, 'scuse me, but do you own her?"

"Yes. I do, actually. We are leaving. Monique do you have cab fare?"

"Yeah."

I reach up and grab the brat by the ear lobe. This will put her in her place. If I had grabbed her by the hair or something more menacing, it would simply have aroused both her and the crowd.

"Fuck, that hurts!" she squeals.

I begin walking her across the dance floor when one of the boys grabs my arm.

"Dude, that is not cool."

"Unless you want to learn how to pick up bloody teeth, I suggest you get your fucking hands off me."

He lets go of me and I continue pulling her across the dance floor by the ear. In the rubber pants, she needs to shuffle to keep up with me and the heels don't help.

As we exit the club and pass the bouncer, he hands me back my license.

"Hey, she isn't underage," he states.

"Yeah and she's not my daughter either."

"Jeezus, I can't believe you are embarrassing me like this."

"And I can't believe you completely disregarded my request."

I disarm the truck alarm, open the passenger's door and push her in, shutting the door on her. As I get in the truck, she calls me an asshole. We drive off down 4th street.

"Can I have my phone back?"

"No. You can go without it for a week."

"I can't. My calendar is on there," she whines.

"I will give you a pen and paper and you can write out your calendar."

"I can't believe what an ass you are being."

"Stop while you are ahead," I warned her.

"You treat me like child."

"Act like child and you will be treated like one."

"Fuck you."

With her words, I turn left on to 16th street and go beyond were the road ends and into a vacant lot. It is on the bay, dark and desolate. She looks over at me and realizes she has gone too far. Grabbing her by the hair, I slap her across the face.

The slap brings a glazed calm to her. Her response is similar as when you pick up a pissed-off cat by the scruff of the neck, how they suddenly become still and quiet.

"Don't ever talk to me that way again."

I reach into the storage box under the backseat and pull out a cock gag. I keep a few items on hand as one never knows when they may be needed. She struggles with me as I force it into her mouth and buckle it around her head. She is now more pissed then before. Again, I slap her.

Getting out of the truck, I walk around to the passenger side and open the door. There is always rope in the truck. It comes in handy. Binding her hand behind her back, I force her out of the truck and push her stomach down onto the passenger seat. With the excess rope, I pull her arms up and secure them to the grab bar above the door. Slapping her again, she begins to cry and gag a bit on the rubber cock in her mouth.

Rubber pants are among the most difficult articles of clothing to put on and get off. However, I am able to peel them down around her hips and just above her knees, revealing her bare ass. Because they are skintight, the pants alone serve to bind her knees together.

"You will never forget this mistake."

I pull my belt from my pants, fold it over and begin beating her ass with it. With each blow she writhes. I am not even counting tonight. I deliver several strikes and then I feel her ass to see how hot or welted it has become. After ten minutes of beating her ass, I grab her cunt. It is soaking wet. This just makes my cock hard.

Using my belt, I make a noose and put it over her head and around her throat. With a stray piece of rope, I secure her ponytail to her bound hands. Sliding my fingers into her, I begin to fuck her with my fingers. Her arms are strained by my thrusting fingers and as she moves her head, she pulls her own hair. I can hear her muffled moans against the rubber cock.

Unbuttoning my pants, I pull my hard cock out and push it into her. With her legs bound by her rubber pants, her cunt is extra tight. With each stroke, I can feel her open up to me. I hold onto the belt and give it a tug while I fuck her. Not enough to choke her, she would like that, just enough to let her know I could if I wanted to. With each thrust of my cock, the rope pulls her arms and again her hair is pulled.

"Don't fuckin' come. If you do, you will spend the next week home with the exception of going to class."

I continue raping her cunt and then I feel it. She holds her breath, her body goes rigid, and I feel her cunt convulse around my cock.

"I told you not to fuckin' come."

Pulling my cock from her cunt, I rub spit on her asshole then thrust into her. With just the juice from her cunt and my spit for lube, she bucks at the violent entry. Within two stokes I unload my cum in her ass. I roll off her, resting for a moment against the truck, I pull up my pants and button them. Removing the belt from her neck, I slide it back through the belt loops of my pants and buckle it.

She is still hanging there by the rope. The encounter has left her limp. Releasing her hair from the rope, I untie her arms from the grab bar. With her arms bound behind her back, I turn her to face me. Tears smear her makeup as she cries. I unbuckle the gag and remove it from her.

"Why does it have to be this way?" She sobs.

"What way?"

"That we end up angry and short with each other."

"Well, you don't take responsibility for things. Like being home when I tell you or doing your homework. It is as if you want me mad."

"I try. But, I'm scared of standing still."

I reach around her and release her wrist from the ropes. She leans back onto the seat and begins to cry.

"What is there to be scared of?" I ask.

"I might miss something."

"You might. And as you're doing something, you will miss something else. You can't do it all."

"I know. Just stick with me. I need you."

"I will." And I pull her close.

"It's is not like I am perfect. You have stuck with me through my mistakes."

"Yeah." She gasps a breath and snuffles.

"We are strange pair."