East Coast Americana

“Thank you, Daddy,” I murmured, pleased but calculating silently how many bandages I would need.

Relocating to a 9 million dollar estate in the Hamptons hadn’t changed my baby at all. His tattooed arms still moved with the nervous weight of his former poverty.

Back in those days, we would smoke some chronic before we went at it. That wasn’t the style in his new neighborhood though- here they snorted coke. I liked to think I could handle that white powder, like a moth discerning what was moonlight and what was flame- but really, it terrified me and I was under his power sober.

He finished warm and wet, and removed the knife from under my left breast.

It seemed I had been ravaged by a scarlet storm, I was dripping so badly.

“Baby, I can’t go to work like this,” I whimpered through pouty lips, though inside I felt happy-dirty and a little dizzy, my bloodlust satisfied.

Groaning amicably he pulled out his first aid kit. “Right, the women’s center,” he paused. “Get cleaned up and let the next one in.”

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