All For You, Daddy

William Jones is known as the Lord of the Manor. He's in his forties, but he looks twenty-five. Has been our landlord for years now, and my family haven't been able to foster a stable relationship with him. Would you blame him? His position is at the top, and we're below. When he serves us an eviction notice after days of Papa playing him, we're helpless. We have nothing to offer in exchange for ridiculous amount of rent we owe. Nothing but me. Passion is a very funny business, and neither of us expected the surge of adrenaline that engulfs us from the very first touch. But William harbors demons far stronger than my angelic light. Will I truly teach the Lord how to love again? Or will I be defeated in this cold battle? ---------------- 1: Grace. The Lord comes to collect today. That's what my parents call our landlord, anyway. They've called him that for so long that it stuck. Now everyone in the neighborhood calls him that, crossing themselves behind his back. Or running and hiding in their apartments. I don't run. I'd never miss my chance to watch him move in that sleek, panther-like way, the master of everything he sees. When he climbs from the back of his limousine and buttons his suit coat with precise twists of his long fingers, I grow short of breath. Even his mean expression makes my hand wrap tightly around the branch of the tree where I'm perched across the street, sweat gathering between my breasts. William Jones. He owns every tenement building in this neighborhood and many, many high rises in others. On the first of every month, he swoops in to collect checks from the building manager's office where we send our rent. If the check for that month is short—and in this economy, it often is—someone usually ends up getting evicted. Thrown out on the street without a second thought. That's why they call him the Lord. He has no conscience. No compassion. My mother claims he has enough money to buy and sell us all. And...I think that's when the fantasies started. When I started imagining William...buying me. Maybe he is the prince of darkness after all? Our priest is always talking about temptation at Sunday mass and how it can ruin a person's life. Lead them astray. Astray isn't exactly what I'd call the tremors that tickle along my inner thighs when William strides down the sidewalk, a king picking through the slums. What I feel is more like infatuation. Budding hunger. Curiosity. At eighteen, I know nothing about men, especially powerful, potentially evil ones. I only know what the indecent flex of sinew in his back does to my body. His obvious strength makes me damp in places that aren't mean to be damp. Makes my n*****s stiffen into pebbles, hard and achy and sensitive. And my body's response isn't even the most shameful part of all. No, it's the fact that I...have sympathy for him. Even though he's put so many of my neighbors out on the street. Sure, his tight, cleanly shaven jaw makes it look like he's grinding nails with his teeth. Sure, his blue-black eyes are piercing and full of malice. Yes, he has no problem ripping people's homes out from under them. But every month when I watch him from my branch in the tree, I see more. I see the pain he's trying to hide. Lord help me, it attracts me to him even more. Across the street, William disappears into the building manager's office and I let out a stuttering breath, relieved to be hidden by branches and leaves. Because I can't stop my hand from coasting down over my breast, squeezing the mound through my ratty, second hand tank top. A gasp fires from my mouth and my fingers seek out my hard n****e eagerly, rubbing it side to side, agitating the flesh between my thighs even more. My mother's words come back to me, as they often do. He could buy and sell us all. If the landlord bought me, what would he do with me? Would he be mean? Or would he soften when we're alone? In the dark, with our clothes off, would he climb on top of me and...perform the confusing act I've caught my brothers doing with their girlfriends? I can't imagine a hardened man like him accepting pleasure from anyone. Or letting his guard down for a single second. But I can't help thinking about it. A lot. My diary sits on the tree branch beside me. My constant companion. I'm already itching to write my private musings about William down on paper, putting my thoughts in their secret place where no one can see them, thanks to the lock. Only I have the combination to open it—a must in our cramped three-bedroom apartment where six of us live. My mother, father, grandmother, two siblings and me. I'm the youngest and the only girl, so I share a room with my grandmother. I'm jolted back into awareness when William leaves the building manager's office, prowling back toward his limousine, a suited man opening the door for him. Someone is getting evicted today. Oh yes. I can tell by William's impatient movements. The way he plows fingers into his jet-black hair, leaving it only slightly less than perfect. Right before he folds his tall, broad frame into the back seat, he stops and looks around with a terrifying frown, nearly catching me where I watch him from the tree. But I duck back just in time to escape his scrutiny, my pulse running wild from almost having those savage eyes on me. My heart raps against my ribcage when he drives away a moment later—and I have to write in my diary now. I have to document all these confusing emotions the landlord inspires. My pen and these pages are my only escape from the constant chaos that is my apartment. Don't get me wrong, I love my siblings, even if they torture me. My parents are good people, too. But this diary is my saving grace. It's the one thing that is all mine. No one else's. Hopping down from the tree, I flush to the roots of my blonde hair. Now that I'm standing, the dampness of my panties is impossible to ignore. Reminding myself that no one can see it, I run across the street into my apartment building. Up the stairs, past some kids playing games on their phones and into our place on the second floor. The six of us come and go so often throughout the day, we leave the door unlocked, so I merely bump it open with my hip— And I draw to a halt. My mother is crying on the couch, my father pacing in front of her. "Why didn't you tell me you lost your job?" she weeps. "We could have made up the rent some other way, but now there's no time." That's when I notice the bright yellow eviction notice resting on the coffee table and the blood in my veins turns to ice. "Mom..." I whisper, bringing her head up, noticing me for the first time. "Are we being thrown out?" She swipes at her tears. "We're going to think of something, sweetie." As day turns to evening, however, my parents hit one dead end after another. None of our friends or family can loan us money. Nothing we own is valuable enough to pawn. My brothers can't convince their minimum wage jobs to advance them paychecks. We owe more than we could hope to scrape together on short notice and oh God, I've never heard my father cry before, but he does now. We're going to be homeless. A tear falls from my eye, leaving a splotch on the page of my diary, a helpless feeling settling inside of me. I'm in the closet of my parents' bedroom, a place I often come to get enough privacy to write with the use of a flashlight. I'm not expecting the door to open so suddenly and I yelp, slamming my diary closed and engaging the lock. "Mom," I say, looking up at her tear-stained face. "Are you okay? Did you think of anything?" For a long moment, she only stares at me, her expression inscrutable. "Can you come out of there so we can talk, Grace?" "Of course." I crawl out from beneath the hanging clothes and stand, letting her guide me to the bed where we sit beside each other. "What's up?" My mother buries her face in her hands. "Grace, I wouldn't ask you to do this if there was any other option. But...time is going to run out." Her voice starts to swell with tears. "This apartment is our home. I have no idea where we'll go—" "It's okay, Mom." I squeeze her forearm. "What do you want to ask me?" She blows out a long, slow breath. "Grace, you've always been kind of a tomboy, running around climbing trees, getting filthy. But you're not a child anymore and...a lot of men in the neighborhood have noticed. Your brothers have had to knock quite a few teeth out lately." "Really?" My jaw is in my lap. "Why?" "Because when some men find a woman attractive, they express it by saying crude things about their body. It's not right, but it's the way things are." She shakes her head to clear it. "My point is, you're incredibly beautiful, Grace. Appealing in ways I never was. And...I hate myself for asking this, but I wonder if that beauty might buy us some time with the landlord." My brow is furrowed, trying to decipher her meaning. I'm still reeling from the revelation that I'm considered beautiful. I don't even brush my hair most days. And my feet are usually dirty from forgetting to wear shoes. Don't women have to wear perfume and dresses to be considered beautiful? "I don't understand. How can I buy us some time?" "It might not work." My mother wets her lips nervously. "But...oh God, I can't believe I'm saying this. But some men, Grace, will forgive a debt if his...sexual needs are met. By a woman. By...you." Heat begins to thrum in my belly. If that isn't proof I've gone down the road of temptation, nothing is. I should be horrified by what my mother is asking me to do. Instead, I'm shamelessly eager. Excited. "You want me to go to bed naked with the landlord?" That's the only way I know how to describe what I've accidentally seen between my brothers and their girlfriends. Two people in the dark, jerking around and making weird sounds in the sheets. Why does the idea of doing that with William make my femininity clench tightly? "Yes," my mother whispers, a tear rolling down her cheek. "That's what I'm asking. I'm asking you to trade the pleasure of your body, your...virginity...to stop us from being evicted. We're so desperate. If there was any other choice..." She trails off and I think, really think, about what I'm being asked to do. I'm being asked to offer myself to the Lord so my family won't be thrown out on the street. I would do anything to prevent that, of course. Anything. But... "What if he says no, Mom?" I ask, looking down at my old cutoff jeans. My dirty knees. The way my breasts jut out, pointy and small. Unlike the women I see in magazines with gorgeously round bosoms. "Will he want...this?" A cynical laugh leaves her. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." She points to the door of the bedroom. "Go take a shower. We have some work to do."