One of the unexpected
perks
of becoming a writer here at Literotica is all the wonderful people who get in touch, to (mostly) compliment you on your stories. I'll confess, sometimes you can end up making quite the connection online. This story was inspired by conversations I had with one young lady, although the Halloween element is an ingredient I added to the mix all on my own. As always, anyone involved in any sexual activity is at least eighteen years old.
*
He sits alone in a darkened room.
In silence.
Well, not quite in silence. Every so often he sighs to himself. A brief exhalation of air, expressing his feelings more concisely and more accurately than a monologue of a thousand words could ever convey. The tone of it all is crystal clear. Its meaning is obvious.
He is angry.
Very
angry.
He looks up at the clock on the wall, illuminated only by the street lights outside. He's in his mid-forties, but he's never liked telling the time with an analogue device. It always takes him a fraction of a second longer to do so than it would with a digital display. But he can see what the hands are telling him. Loud and clear. It's nearly three in the morning.
Where is she?
He taps his fingers on the arms of the chair, waiting and wondering. Ever more exasperated. Ever more frustrated. She should have been home by one. That's her agreed curfew. Sure, if she was ten or fifteen minutes late, he wouldn't have kicked up much of a fuss. Even half an hour would be acceptable.
But this? This was very much
not
acceptable.
His wife had gone to bed early, long before the time Lola was due back. She was upstairs now, fast asleep, not remotely concerned about the whereabouts of their teenage daughter. She's always soft with them; Lola and her brother.
He's the one who has to take a firmer hand. He's the one who has to draw a line in the sand.
Halloween
. He's always hated Halloween. He didn't like it when he was a kid, although that was probably because his over-protective mother always stopped him from going trick-or-treating. He has convinced himself that he thought this was a vulgar American tradition, even though All Hallows' Eve pre-dated the landing at Plymouth Rock by centuries.
But it was all so
naff
and stupid. The pumpkins, the candles. It was ridiculous. And the outfits everyone wore? Why did the advent of Halloween mean every girl in the neighbourhood had to dress up like a slut and a whore? With their short skirts and their revealing tops and their stockinged legs.
It was wrong. It was
so
wrong.
Earlier in the evening, things were fine. Younger children would come knocking on the door. You would see their parents stood at the end of the driveway, keeping a watchful eye on proceedings, as their darling offspring asked for sweets. Little girls dressed up as witches. Little boys dressed up as skeletons. That was charming. That was delightful. That was acceptable.
But, as the night progressed, the age of the trick-or-treaters increased. Burly young men, barely bothering with a costume, asking for money rather than confectionery. It was more like extortion with menaces, than some innocent late autumnal festival.
And the girls? They were more akin to common prostitutes, as far as he was concerned. He had seen Lola leave the house earlier that night. He was going to say something, but his wife had pleaded with him to keep quiet.
"She looks like a
slut
!" He hissed.
"She looks grand. She's only wearing what they all wear. Stop being so protective. She's a young woman now. She's not a kid."
So, he had reluctantly acquiesced, letting his eldest child enter the night, dressed up like a tart. All evening he had obsessed over it. Obsessed over her appearance. Those black, knee-high boots she had on. The fishnet stockings. The short skirt. The white blouse that was tied up, revealing her bare midriff. A white blouse that was almost completely unbuttoned, exposing her lacy, black bra to the world.
Those images were never far away. As he tried to watch television. As he answered the door to more and more children. As he wished his wife a good night, when she went to bed. He could picture Lola. Her legs. Her body. Her face.
Finally, there was movement. He could see the headlights of a vehicle shining through the curtains. The engine continued running and he heard the muffled slam of a car door. Then the clack clack clack of high-heeled boots on concrete, as she walked up to the front of the house. He stood up and glided silently into the hallway. Standing still. Waiting.
He could see her through the frosted glass, a blurred silhouette. She dropped her keys. He heard a cute little exclamation of
shit
emitting from her lips. She bent down to pick them up, and then she eventually found the lock.
The door opens and in she comes. She's swaying a little and humming quietly to herself. Some tune he doesn't recognise. At first she doesn't see him, but then she becomes aware of his presence.
"Oh, hey, Daddy," she whispers, in an almost comically drunk fashion.
He doesn't say a word. He just stands and stares.
"You okay?" She asks.
"Where have you been?" He says, his voice icy cold.
"Um...well...we met these really cool girls at the club. So, when we left, we went to their place. They were super, super fun."
"And do you know what time it is?"
"Uh...gee...it is kind of late. I'm sorry Daddy. I didn't see what time it was."
"Do you know what time you were supposed to be back home?"
"Yeah, I know. I kind of let things get away from me there a little."
"Let things get away from you?"
"Yeah...sorry."
"Sorry? That's the best you can do? Sorry?"
"Okay. I'm
very
sorry."
"You're just unbelievable, Lola. I can't believe how selfish you are. You have such a good life here. Such an easy life. Your mother and I provide for you. And all we expect from you is a little respect."
"I
do
respect you," she exclaims.
"No you don't. You don't respect me. Or your mother. You don't respect yourself, for that matter."
