Daddy's Girl

Daddy's Girl

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

This is a story about London. Not the modern corporate cess-pit, but the London of my youth. Being a story of real Londoners, I have allowed liberal use of the vernacular. I hope that's not too offputting. As London is a big sprawling city, this is quite a big sprawling story - longer than my usual stuff, so before you start, make yerself a nice cuppa tea!

Summary

This is a story about London. Not the modern corporate cess-pit, but the London of my youth.
Being a story of real Londoners, I have allowed liberal use of the vernacular. I hope that's not too offputting.
As London is a big sprawling city, this is quite a big sprawling story - longer than my usual stuff, so before you start, make yerself a nice cuppa tea!

Content

Submitted: February 20, 2019

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: February 20, 2019

A A A

A A A


Do you remember when you first heard the term ‘toyboy’? I was about 40 when I heard it first – that would make it late ‘90s, early 2000s. It has never been my thing but I loved the idea that women could finally do what men have been doing to us for ever – trade in our old jalopy for a faster new model. So much has changed for us over the years – these days you can have casual lesbianism, or be in a same sex marriage and no-one bats an eye – but when I was chit you lived in fear of being labelled a ‘lezzie’ if you so much as passed a positive comment on another girl. Men had it worse perhaps, no one beat up a girl for being gay, but when it came to sex men held all the cards.

When I was nineteen you had to dress for a man, wait for a man, do what a man wanted, and even if he was shit at what he wanted you still had to butter him up afterwards or you were the weak one! As a girl, you could never make the first move – or you were a slag – and if you didn’t respond to his fumblings - you were frigid! And don’t let’s talk about masturbation! Boys could be wanking their silly dicks from the cradle and that was just fine, but if you so much leaned against the washing machine during the spin cycle, you were ‘weird’.

So when you hear old women talk about the good old days, buy them a drink, listen politely and thank God it wasn’t you.

I was nineteen in the spring of 1980, my father was a banker and like many other city daughters I got a job at father’s bank when I left school. You have to remember that this was London before it all went crazy, before the yuppies and the developers and the landlords turned our city into one big money machine. The East/West divide was still very, very real. The rich lived in the west of the city and the suburbs, the poor lived in the East End or Essex and never the twain did meet.

Except they did. Me and my friends from the bank would often head down to some seedy Stepney club for a bit of excitement and those Cockney lads would come up West to swagger and stare and pull posh girls like me.

That’s how I met Stevie Collinge. The name means nothing now, but in those days the Collinge family were one of the big London gangs. This was a time when The Richardsons, Ronnie and Reggie Kray and Mad Frankie Frazer were all in prison, but you still spoke their names in hushed voices and with respect. The story was that the Collinge family was run by a man known as ‘Daddy’ Collinge, but unlike the other gangsters, he was shrouded in mystery. Crime, like banking, was still a family affair in London. It wouldn’t last of course: with all the money sloshing around later, crime became corporate, like the rest of the city.

So I was fucking Stevie Collinge, and it was great. Yes, I had had a few affairs with boys from my own social background, nice boys; boys Mother would love you bring home. And there was the problem. I was already being called an ‘old maid’ – at nineteen! It sounds ridiculous now, but in those days, girls were bred to wed. So I knew I’d have to get hitched pretty soon, and I wanted a bit of excitement before I did. Stevie was good at excitement.

Brash banter, fast cars, the air of violence that surrounded him were all an aphrodisiac for me. The sex wasn’t bad either. I had a little flat in Chelsea where he’d come to me and fuck me with fierceness. Okay, sometimes he could get a bit rough, but he was always sorry afterwards and I would be later brought some piece of (probably stolen) jewellery by his repentant hands.

One night we were out driving around – he had a Mercedes 450 roadster which he drove like a maniac through the dark streets in the early hours – when out of the blue, a dark saloon pulled out of a side street right in front of us. Stevie went mental.

“You fucking cunt!” he roared as he dived out of the car. I thought I was finally going to see him kill someone.

The driver of the other car was quickly out of his door too, a stocky bald man with a hooked nose. Stevie stopped immediately.

“Ah, it’s you, Fred. I didn’t recognise the car” he said as he approached the man.

“New one, son.” the other man said in a gravelly voice, “Mum wants yer.”

“Alright, Fred,” Stevie said, “Lemme just take, Charlie ‘ome and I’ll be right there.”

“She wants yer now,” came the short reply.

“C’mon, Freddie,” Stevie wheedled, “it won’t take more ‘n half an hour.”

“Now.” the other man was implacable, “And don’t never call me Freddie, boy. Collinge or no Collinge, I won’t fucking take it.”

With that he stepped into his car and sat down.

Stevie came back to the car and sat down. “Listen, Charlie, love. I gotta take a run home and see my mum.”

“Oh that’s fine,” I said, “I’d love to meet your mother.”

“Yeah, well. That’s it. It might be family business and I don’t want you getting involved in none o’ that. So I’ll take you down Aldgate, you might still get a tube…”

“Stevie, it’s past midnight and it’s Sunday…I’ll never get home now.”

“Yeah, but… I’ll find you a cab…okay.”

The other man, Fred, sounded his horn. I saw him as he pointed to his watch.

“Aw fuck! Right, we get to Mum’s you stay in the car and you keep mum. Understand me.” he sounded angry. I nodded my reply.

 

Their house was a in a narrow row of Victorian terraces – one of those rare East End streets that had survived the Blitz and the city planners. Stevie pulled up outside and hissed at me to stay put, but as he strode up the pavement, the car door was opened by the man called Fred.

“Let’s go, miss,” he said and offered me an arm.

I was worried what Stevie would say, what he might do. I shrank back on my seat, but the man smiled and said, “Don’t you worry, miss. It’ll be fine. Someone would like to meet yer.”

I took his arm, Fred was not much taller than me, but I could feel hard muscle through his jacket.

Mrs Collinge met me at her front door, she was a broad bubbly woman in her late 40s. “In you come, my darling, lovely to see you. Steven told me all about you. Come in and ‘ave a cuppa tea. I’ll go put the kettle on.” And she bustled off.

In their tidy, if cluttered, front room, an old man was sitting in front of the gas fire in an armchair. His face was hard and lean, his hair short, smart and grey. He wore a three piece suit with a gold watch chain across his waistcoat. He turned a pair of clear grey eyes upon me.

‘E’re y’are, darlin’’ the man said, in deep, raw cockney tones, tapping his cheek with a long thick finger.

“He wants you to ki-“said Stevie.

“She knows, boy, she knows,”

I didn’t actually, and I was really glad Stevie had said something. I dutifully bent down to kiss the old man on his proffered cheek. I expected the smell of beer, or tobacco, but as my lips touched his skin, I could scent only soap and the warm, musky scent of man.

“That’s it, my girl,” he smiled, “Now let’s have a look at yer.”

“Mu-um!” I heard Steve whine, “Does he have to do this?”

“It’s his way, sweet-pea,” she soothed, “You know that.”

“But it’s so fucking embarrassing…”

“’Old your noise, young Steven,” the old man barked. The hardness of his voice made me shudder. He must have noticed, because he added in a warm, honey-sweet tone, “You’ll have to forgive my nephew, my dear, ‘e sometimes forgets to respect his elders. And I wish you no harm, nor hurt, nor anything that would make you uncomfortable in our home. You understand?”

I nodded, there was something in his voice, in his gaze, that charmed me, put me at my ease.

His eyes seemed to shine as he looked at me.

“Ain’t you the pretty one,” he began, his voice soft and warm, “a beautiful lady. If I was younger – and I mean a lot of years younger – I wouldn’t wonder if me and young Steven here wouldn’t be out on the street trading punches for the privilege of walking you ‘ome. Such a beauty you are.”

I felt…God…even now, nearly forty years down the road, my body tingles at the memory of how I felt when that old man told me that I was beautiful. Something in his voice, in his gaze made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

His grey eyes twinkled.

“Jew, ain’t yer?”

I was shocked by his bluntness. And it wasn’t just me.

“For fuck’s sake!” moaned Steve.

“Uncle Aubrey!” hissed his mother.

“What?” he growled, “You think I mean something by it? Never had nothing against the Jews, I haven’t. Good people, trustworthy, hard working. Unlike some I could mention. Just a fact, da’ling, nothing more. Aubrey Collinge ain’t no yiddified momzer. Ask anyone. What’s your name, my girl?”

“Charlotte Rosen,” I said, stiffly. I wasn’t mollified by his explanation.

 “Rosen, eh? Rosen. Not the Mile End Rosens, not you. That family have never produced anything as lovely as you. You might be related to the Cable Street Rosens, but – please don’t take this as anything more than an observation – you don’t wear your clothes like someone whose family was in the schmutter trade.”

I was felt indignant, first of all the Jew comment and then he’s criticising my dress sense. Part of me wanted to walk out of that cheap little house and never see these horrible Collinges ever again. But another part of me felt gripped by his steely gaze, it was as if he was looking inside me.

“There was Rosens up in Hackney, but you ain’t one of them. Now if you’d said your name was Silverman, I might know a little something about you.”

He read my expression and gave a little chuckle.

“I’m right, ain’t I? You’re a Silverman. I’ll go so far as to say your grandfather, your zeyde, is none other than Mr Solomon Silverman of Hatton Gardens. Now you tell me something, Miss Charlotte Rosen; does your Uncle Laurence or your Uncle Daniel run the business now? I always though Dan had the better head for business, but young Lozzer knew the stones like no man.”

“Uncle Dan runs the office,” I blurted out, “but Zedye still goes into the shop every day.”

“Does he, by God.” the old man chuckled, “Old Solly still working? He must be getting towards 90 now. Let’s get back to you, my pretty. I know who you ain’t. You ain’t Lozzer’s or Dan’s, and I’ll tell you something else, you ain’t Mariam’s. Your Aunt Mariam married Terry Verender, he’s in the meat trade, and I know for a fact they had three boys. So your mum must be Old Solly’s youngest. Now, I ain’t seen your mum in thirty years – last time I saw your mum she had no front teeth, her hair was in long pigtails and she was skipping rope outside your grandma’s house in Spittalfield with Doris Kline’s little Beryl. But you’re her, I know it. You’re Ruthie Silverman’s eldest, ain’t yer?”

“Yes…” I was taken aback that this old man, who I’d never seen before, seemed to know my entire family history, “How do you know?”

At that point Mrs Collinge arrived with the tea, “Uncle Aubrey,” she chid, “Where are your manners? Can’t a poor young girl take a seat in this ‘ouse?” She patted another armchair, “Just you sit, my lovely.”

I sat down, I couldn’t help notice that he old man hadn’t taken his eyes off me. But somehow, I was enjoying his gaze, I knew he was the power in this house, and power is always exciting. I found a cup of tea in my hand.

“Charlotte Rosen, eh? And do you go by Charlotte, miss?” Aubrey Collinge was speaking again.

“My friends call me Charlie,” I replied.

“Charlie, eh?” his voice seemed to smile, “In my day it would be Lottie…lovely little Lottie.” I could feel myself relax, that little compliment sounded so heartfelt. “You look a lot like your bubbe, Hannah Silverman was a beautiful women in her day, a real lady too. But you won’t remember her.”

“Everyone in my family says I look like Grandma Silverman, but I don’t understand. How do you know that? Bubbe was taken in The Blitz. That’s forty years ago.”

The old man looked sad and solemn. “Thirty-nine on October the 17th. She was in the shelter, but it was a direct hit. Solly and Dan were fire watching, Laurence was away in the army. The girls had been to a friend’s party in Golders’ Green and were told to stay when the alarm sounded.”

“I know this. But how do you know this? Are we related?”

At this the old man laughed, “Related? ‘Ark at her! No, my da’ling, we ain’t related.  But I knows stuff. And I knows because I’m a Nose. Maybe the last Nose in the country, maybe the world.”

“A Nose?”

“Of course you won’t know what that means. Let me tell you, my pretty. Back in the old days, if you had a good pair of eyes and a good memory, you could be useful.  If you spent a good lot of time walking about, looking at all the people in the neighbourhood, you’d learn who was who and where they lived and what they did. Information that could be useful to certain parties. You’d recognise strangers, you could pick out family resemblances if someone turned up claiming to be a long-lost cousin.”

“If you listened to what people said, and watched how they moved, and checked their faces against what you knew they were like at rest, you could tell a liar or a boaster, you could see a bluff. You knew what the truth looked like. That ability was very useful. People would pay for that. A couple of the old boys used to play the halls with it. You know the thing, ‘I can give you a name address and family history by looking at you’ sort of thing. Maybe you know ‘Pygmalion’? ‘My Fair Lady’?”

“Well yes,” I said, hastily. By now I was charmed by his voice, his steady clear eyed gaze. I wanted him to talk forever.

“Professor Higgins can tell where a man comes from by his accent. Old Bernard Shaw got that idea because he used to slum it down at the Prince of Wales Music Hall in Elephant and Castle. He saw Percy Stone there and got to know him. Percy was a Nose, like me. Played the halls for years, but only the ones within a mile of where he was born.”

And so it went on. He spoke of the old East End, and he questioned me about my family, paying close attention to marriages and grandchildren, things that had happened ‘after his time’ and things he ‘might store up for later’. But I soon remembered that it was Stevie Collinge I arrived with. Stevie had been perched on a hard-backed chair, his body rigid as his uncle and I chatted and charmed. At one point he stood quickly, and the chair toppled. I could see his face was tight with anger.

“Careful,” came a throwaway warning from Aubrey Collinge, but the spell was broken, we both knew it.

“Well, Miss Rosen,” he addressed me, “it has been a great pleasure to spend some time with you, and at my time of life, pleasures are few.” he turned his attention to Stevie, “It’s a cold night, young Steven, go and get the car warmed up for Miss Rosen here.”

“I’ll be fine, really…” I began.

“Please, Miss Rosen,” he said, “Allow an old man an indulgence. Go on, boy. What you waiting for.” Stevie left, slamming the door. Aubrey Collinge turned to his niece, “Leave us Doris,” Stevie’s mum left the room without a word.

The old man leaned across to me, once again I felt is charm, his warmth, his power. “Listen to me, miss, our Steven ain’t a bad boy, but he ain’t a good one neither. I know you’re having fun, but be careful. Especially tonight. Watch what you say. I think my nephew is feeling a bit touchy about his old uncle, so you mind how you go. Perhaps Mr Perrott should take you ‘ome.”

“Mr Perrott?”

“The gentleman what brought you in,”

“Stevie called him Freddie, he didn’t like it.”

“Ecrha,” the old man exclaimed, “best to be respectful around men like Mr Perrott, da’ling.”

A car horn sounded.

“I have to go,” I said, and I bent down to kiss his cheek, his skin was warm under my lips, “Thank you for a lovely evening, Mr Collinge.”

He fixed me with that penetrating gaze of his, his eyes really were beautiful, “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Rosen. But I think, if we meet again, you can call me Daddy.”

It was only when I was out in the cold spring air that it hit me. I had just been sitting and chatting with one of the most feared men in London.

Down the street Stevie flashed his lights at me. I hustled towards him, but suddenly a man stepped out of the shadows in front of me.

“Oh, Mr Perrott,” I stammered.

“Sorry to give you a fright, miss,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, “But Mr Collinge thinks it would be best if I take you ‘ome tonight.”

The car horn sounded.

“I really think I need to go with Stevie, Mr Perrott. But thank you, so much, you are very kind.”

He looked at me, briefly pausing, before he said, “As you wish, miss. You go careful now.”

 

The car journey back across London was a tense affair, Stevie said nothing. He drove, fast and wild as usual, but his face was fixed, hard and immovable.

When we got to my address he stopped the car and waited, staring straight ahead.

“What’s the matter, love?” I asked him, gently, not wanting to upset him further.

“What did I say?” he snarled, not looking at me, “What did I say? Stay in the car and say nothing. Fuck all!” he was shouting, “What did I fucking say?”

“But Mr Perrott came and …”

“Freddie fucking Parrot-face!” he interrupted, “You could have told him no, couldn’t yer! You stupid fucking slag.”

“Stevie, please.” I cried, “Let’s go inside. We can talk about this.”

 

I should have said nothing. Not to him. I should have taken his signal to get out of the car and go home and forget all about it. Me and my big mouth. I really should not have invited him into my flat that night.

 

Stevie followed me through the door, I hung up my coat. I was at home, I felt safe. Idiot. Even after all these years I’m still cursing myself.

I wandered into the lounge, I turned to Stevie, “It was lovely to meet your mum, Stevie. And your Uncle Aubrey. What an amazing man. I’ve never met anyone like-“

A fist in my stomach knocked the breath out of me.

“You fucking cunt,” he hissed, “I’ll give you fucking amazing…” he slapped me hard across the face. I was reeling, dizzy, confused and now terrified. Another punch in my stomach doubled me over. I felt Stevie push my skirt up over my back, then his nails scraped my skin as he tugged at the waistband of my knickers.

“No,” I gasped, breathless from the punch, “Please, Stevie…”

He ripped my panties off, the elastic tearing the skin of my hips before it snapped. He pushed me onto the couch and started fumbling with his pants.

“No, Stevie,” I cried, my eyes and nose streaming, “Please...”

I was rigid with fear, my whole body tense and tight. But he pulled my legs apart and forced himself into me. I howled in pain. Every vicious thrust rasped at my insides, a burning sensation. I could do nothing. He was too strong. I felt so weak.

He pulled out. “Who’s amazing now, eh? You little fucking scrubber. Over!” he barked at me.

I didn’t know what he meant. I was crying, my face covered in tears and snot. All I could feel was pain – my face, my stomach, between my legs. I blinked at him, gasping like a fish out of water. “What?”

“You fucking cow!” he yelled and picked me up and threw me face down on the couch. I had no idea what was coming. These days, God above, these days boys expect it. But back then. Well, you just didn’t do it.

I felt his strong hands pulling my buttocks apart.

And then.

I screamed then.

The pain, the shame, the humiliation! I screamed and cried and yelled as that beast sodomised me on my own couch. His huge strong hand covered my mouth, I tried to bite, but he clamped my mouth shut. I couldn’t breathe. In panic, my body jerked and spasmed.

He laughed. I was in a world of agony and terror and panic and that monster laughed at me. “Oh you like this, you fucking whore? You fucking like it?” he pumped harder and faster. The pain was excruciating, the lack of oxygen was making me dizzy. It was probably only seconds, minutes at most, but the pain seemed to last a lifetime.

At last it was over. I felt him wipe the mucus off his hand on the back of my blouse. He stood over me. I was crying, panting, gasping for breath.

“C’mon, Charlie,” I heard him say, “That’s enough of that. Up you get.”

I couldn’t move. As I lay there I felt something tricking down my thighs. Blood? Semen? I was shivering in fear and pain.

“C’mon, Charlie,” he said again, “You know I didn’t mean it.”

A new sensation was building inside me, anger…

“Pig,” I hissed.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he came back, “No need for names, now. Just a bit of fun, eh?”

“Rapist!” I panted.

I screamed again as he picked me up by my hair, bringing my face close to his. “Just you listen to me, you stupid little bitch. It don’t do to use that sort of language round people like me. Gives the police ideas, don’ it. So watch your mouth.”

But I was too far gone to be sensible.

“You…fucking…rapist…pig!” I said, looking him in the eye.

He dumped me on the floor and kicked me hard in the ribs. The shock left me breathless. Another kick. Lights were dancing in front of my eyes. Through the haze I saw his foot go back again. Then nothing. Blackness.

 

I woke up in hospital. I had four broken ribs, a hairline fracture in my jaw and I was a welter of bruises. I needed stitches above my eye where he had kicked me in the face, I also needed some internal stitching.  There were also the marks on my neck. The doctor explained that my attacker had strangled me – I couldn’t remember this at all – that he had tried to kill me. At that moment, I truly wished he had.

I know this sounds stupid, but it was this last thing that made me think that Stevie stilled cared for me. He had tried to kill me, but stopped. It made me feel, and before God, I can’t explain this, it made me feel sorry for him. It made me hope he’d be waiting for me when I was well.

But as it was, I never saw Steven Collinge again.

 

When the police came to interview me, I wasn’t going to give them Stevie. No way. In my mind Stevie loved me. So I lied. I told them as soon as I got home a man pushed me into my house and attacked me. I told them he was dark haired and sounded foreign.  They brought me pictures, I wanted to finger one of them, to take the suspicion away from Stevie, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. The last picture was of a face I recognised.

“No. Not him.” I told the officer, “Too old, the man who raped me had hair.”

But the detective had seen that I had recognised him.

“We have been informed that this man, or a man looking like him, brought you to the hospital,”

“I don’t know him,” I said.

“Do you know this man is, Miss Rosen?”

I shook my head.

“This man is Fred ‘The Hammer’ Perrott, a known associate and enforcer for the Collinge gang,” the officer informed me, “Do you know why they call him, The Hammer, miss?”

“N-n-no,”

“It’s because he is rumoured to do his enforcing by using hammers, miss. This is a very dangerous man, if he was the one who attacked you, or is in any way associated with your attack, it would help our case against that gang.”

But I said nothing.

 

As spring gave way to summer, I was back at work. The only physical sign of that night was the little scar on my forehead. I thought it made me look more interesting, but all I got were looks of sympathy. The scar didn’t made me look any less than I did before that night. But I think it was a reminder to the people I worked with that I was ‘damaged goods’.

I began to resent that banking crowd – the West End generally – and long for Stevie Collinge to come and take me away from it all.

But Stevie never showed.

I found myself eavesdropping on the cooks and the cleaners that worked in the bank, with their bright cockney accents. One night I got a black cab home and the sound of the cabbie as he chatted and chaffed was so much like that of the Collinge family, I asked him to take me all the way out to my mum and dad’s house in Pinner so that I could just listen to him.

When we got there I tipped him ten pounds – more than the fare now that I think about it.

“Are you sure, da’ling?” The cabbie asked, “That’s an ‘andsome tip an’ no mistake.”

“Please,” I said, “It’s yours.”

“Well thank you kindly, young lady. And if there’s ever anywhere you want to go, just you call me personal,” and he handed me his card.

“There is one place, or one person you could take me to,” I asked him, as I stepped out of the cab.

“Anywhere you like, young lady,” he chirped.

“Could you take me to Daddy Collinge?”

His face went white.

“I have to go now, miss. Thank you kindly, miss. Best not use my number after all.” he shoved his window shut and drove off like a bat out of hell.

 

There was only one thing for it. If Stevie wasn’t coming for me, I’d have to go down East myself.

I went to that same shabby little club in Stepney where I’d first met Stevie. It was loud and brash, but there was no sign of my boy there. After standing at the bar for what felt like a long time, a young man approached me. He was handsome and he knew it, cocksure and confident he asked if I wanted a drink.

“Um, I’m waiting for someone,” I told him.

“Oh? And ‘oo would that lucky fellah be then?” he enquired, smiling cheekily.

“Stevie Collinge,” I said.

The young man laughed, “You’ll ‘ave a wait then, da’ling. Stevie don’t come round ‘ere no more on account of ‘im leaving the country!”

“Oh. I … I better go then.” I tried to step past this man, but he held my arm.

“No, no, sweetheart, I think you should stay for a drink with me.” his face hardened, it made me think of Stevie when he attacked me. I felt panic and nausea grow in my belly. I pushed past him and made for the door.

Just outside I felt him grab me again.

“Wait a minute, girlie. I think you came down East for a bit o’ rough. You want it here, in the street, eh? You little slag.” He pushed me against the wall and I felt his hand push my skirt up.

My throat constricted in my fear. It was happening again. I couldn’t believe it. I felt my breathing stop. I thought, ‘this is it, I’m going to die’.

The came voice I knew.

“Leave ‘er be, son. Leave ‘er be and step way.”

It was Aubrey Collinge.

The young man obviously didn’t know this. “You’ll fuck off, right now, you old cunt, or you’re looking at a slap!”

“’Ark at you. Leave the girl alone, you cheeky young rip,”

The young man turned on Aubrey.

“Right, grandad. I’ll have you now and the bird for afters.”

“Just leave the girl and fuck off, son. That way nobody gets hurt.”

The boy lunged at the old man. I was sure he’d kill him, but in a blink the boy was on the ground and Aubrey’s polished brown shoe was on his neck.

“Stay still, boy.” growled the old man. The boy didn’t move.

“Kaminsky, eh? Billy Kaminsky, ain’t it? Kasper’s boy?” Aubrey asked, the boy gave a difficult nod, “you tell your pa that you met Daddy Collinge tonight.” the boy gave a frightened squeak, “and you tell ‘im that there needs to be a recompense. There’s some lovely stuff in the shop just now. Someone needs something for ‘er trouble. And tell ‘im Daddy’s suit is a bit worn. And something else. Tell ‘im his son ain’t welcome down ‘ere no more.” He took his foot off the boy’s throat.

“Up you get, son,” said Aubrey, “slowly, now. No quick moves. That’s it.”

The boy stood in front of the old man. For the first time I could see how tall Daddy Collinge was.

“I’m really sorry, Mr Collinge,” the boy stammered, “Sorry for the names and stuff, if I’d known – “

Aubrey cut him off, “Don’t you worry, young Billy. You stood you ground like a man. But, it’s not me what needs apology.”

Billy Kaminsky turned to me, “I’m sorry miss. Really sorry. And you come into Chic of Bond Street anytime. For anything.” he gave a little bow.

“Nice,” said Aubrey, “That’s respect, that is. Now fuck off back to Harringey, you little cunt and don’t forget my message to Kasper. I don’t want to see your face round ‘ere again. Got it?”

The boy nodded. Then ran.

I was pushing my skirt down as Aubrey Collinge approached me.

“Well, well, well,” he smiled, “Little Lottie Rosen, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

His huge hand went to my face, he took my jaw in his palm, and his thick thumb gently stroked my scar.

“My beauty,” he sighed, all I could see were his eyes, shining in the streetlight, “to think my flesh and blood gave you that. Not that it makes you any less beautiful. But I am so sorry.”

I started to cry, I couldn’t help myself.

“Oh God, Mr Collinge. You were right, I should have listened, you knew what would happen. I’m sorry Mr Collinge, I should have listened to you...” I was blubbering like a baby.

He took me in his arms and held me tight. I could feel him bring his chin to the top of my head. “What are you to call me, da’ling? Think now, ‘oo am I?”

“Daddy…” I snuffled, “Daddy.”

“That’s it,” he crooned, “and Daddy will always look after his little girl.” He held me a little longer, then broke our embrace to look me in the face. “I’m going to get Mr Perrott to take you ‘ome, my dear, it’s not been a nice night for you. Look at me, Charlotte. You don’t come down ‘ere on your own, understand? Not everyone is as nice as Billy Kaminsky. There are some nasty ones.”

“But….Daddy…I want to see you.” it just came out, but as soon as it did, I knew it was true.

“And you will, my beauty, you will,” he bent down and kissed my forehead, “but home now. We’ll see each other soon, I promise.”

He walked me down the block and opened the back door of a large saloon car.

“Take ‘er home, Fred.” he said. “Goodbye for now.”

And that was that.

I started to tell Mr Perrott my address, he gave a chuckle and said, “I knows it, miss. Been before, ‘aven’t I?”

I didn’t know what to say. “Um...yes.”

He chuckled again.

I remembered something, “Mr Perrott, can I please ask you a question?”

“You can ask,” he said, “but I won’t guarantee an answer.”

“On that night….did you take me to hospital?”

“Yes miss, I did.”

“And did you… did you… stop Steven from…?” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Yes miss, and I am sorry to my very heart I did not come in sooner.”

“Mr Perrott…do you think he…do you think he was trying… trying to …”

“Yes miss. I believe he was.”

There was a flash of white as Mr Perrott whisked a large linen handkerchief over his shoulder. I took it gratefully. By the time we reached Chelsea it was soaking wet.

“’Ere we are miss,” said Mr Perrott.

“You have been so kind to me, Mr Perrott,” I said, “Thank you so much.”

As I stepped out of the car, he wound down the window.

“I’ll see you soon, miss. Mr Collinge tends not to be busy on Friday evenings any more. Shall we say seven o’clock?”

I was genuinely taken aback, “Yes,” I said, “Friday at seven.”

 

That was a strange week. I kept thinking about Daddy Collinge, I couldn’t stop myself. What would he want of me? What did I want? Did I really want to be with a man who knew my grandmother forty years ago? How old was he? What might we do together? But there was one thing I wanted more than anything else. I wanted that feeling again, that feeling of when he looked at me I was the only woman in the world.

After work on Tuesday a delivery man arrived with a big box. The box was marked ‘Chic of Bond Street’, there was a card signed ‘with compliments, K Kaminsky and sons,’ in the box was a quite beautiful black cocktail dress in silk.

Things have changed a lot in ladies fashion over the years, but back then, being short and big-busted meant I could buy nothing off the peg that would fit me. When I took that beautiful dress out of the tissue paper, I was already thinking about my sewing kit. But when I tried it on, the fit was perfect. It was tailored exactly to my size. How could they know? I hung it carefully in the wardrobe, at least I knew what I was wearing on Friday.

At seven o’clock, right on the dot, I was outside my door when that familiar car turned up. Mr Perrott gave me a huge grin as he stepped out of the car to open the back door for me.

Daddy Collinge was already on the back seat, his suit sharp and new, grey with a tiny pinstripe, his gold watch-chain hung over a waistcoat of black silk, which matched my dress exactly.

We ate at La Brasserie on Charing Cross Road, it’s long gone, but in those days, it was the most exclusive restaurant in town. Daddy regaled me with stories in his sonorous cockney accent, it was a joy to listen to him; it had been months since I had laughed so much. All the time his eyes were on me, warming me, making me feel special. Occasionally his gaze would drop from my eyes to my cleavage, but I didn’t care. I felt desired, wanted. And I desperately wanted him. Physically. Despite his great age I wanted him to possess me. I wanted him inside me.

 

After dinner, Mr Perrott drove us to an address near King’s Cross. We went up to the apartment in an elevator, Daddy opened the door and led me in. There was a picture window with a remarkable view of old London. These days it’s all skyscrapers, but then, rooftops and church towers and, standing there was the majesty of ages, the great dome of St Paul’s.

“Lovely, ain’t she? Makes you proud to ‘ave been born here.”

I turned to Daddy, “This is beautiful.”

“It’s ours,” he said simply, “For as long as you want it to be.”

“Wonderful!” I laughed and spun with sheer joy.

“Now then, my pretty. Old Kasper made a lovely job of your dress, didn’t ‘e? But don’t you think it might be better-“

“Off?” I finished for him cheekily. “Yes, Daddy, it’s time to take it off.”

He stood and watched me, his hands on the back of a chair, as I peeled the silk off my body. I laid the dress on a chaise-longue and stood with my hands on hips in my bra and pants.

Daddy’s eyes were all over me, I was fixed in his gaze like rabbit in car headlights.

“Now then girlie, let’s see them big old Bristols,” he husked at me, his voice thick with desire.

I unclipped and let my bra fall to the floor, the room was cool despite it being summer, my nipples tingled and hardened under Daddy’s stare.

“Ain’t you just beautiful,” he said, “Ain’t you the most gorgeous women in the whole of old London, eh?”

I felt it, God help me, I felt like a goddess when he spoke to me like that. As his beautiful eyes ate up my nakedness I felt like the only woman in the world.

“Turn around, nice and slow now, let’s ‘ave a look at you.”

I turned my back to him, but I could still feel his eyes on me, like lasers they seemed to warm my whole being, even when I couldn’t see them.

“Slip them drawers down, my beauty. That’s it, nice and slow, take your time. Oh yes, lovely, that’s a gorgeous Aris’ you have and no mistake!” he chuckled lustily.

I pushed my knickers down my legs, as they hit the floor I heard him command, “Stay there, my lovely, but bend over, all the way.”

I did as he ordered, opening my legs to steady my balance.

“Now spread your legs, show me what you got for Ol’ Daddy.” I felt myself open to his penetrating stare and felt the cool of the room enter my wet and gaping gash. Daddy Collinge laughed out loud. “You really want it, don’t you girl?”

“Yes!” I hissed, uncomfortable, embarrassed, exposed and vulnerable. “Yes. I want it.!”

I straightened up and looked at him, Daddy was loosening his tie. His jacket and waistcoat were already on the back of the chair and he’d slipped his braces off his shoulders.

“Now then,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt, “Tell me this Little Lottie. Do you want to be Daddy’s Good Little Girl? Or do you want to be Daddy’s Little ‘Ore?”

My brain told my mouth to form the word ‘good’, but the heat in my vulva overruled my brain. “I want to be your whore, Daddy. Your nasty little bitch of a whore.”

Daddy’s laughter was hoarse with lust.

“Well on come then, Lottie,” he rasped, “these trouse’s won’t get themselves down!”

I padded naked across the room towards him, I could see in his eyes what he wanted. I knelt in front of him to unbutton his pants.

His trousers slipped easily to the ground. I gasped at what I saw then.

There, its wide root buried in a tangle of grey curly hair, was by far the biggest penis I had ever seen. It was slack and thickening, but even flaccid it was bigger than any erection I had encountered.

For once, Daddy read me wrong. “I’m sorry, my sweet. I know a gorgeous creature like yourself is usually confronted by young men with their soldiers standing to attention. But I am at least three times older than any boy you’ve been with, so he needs a bit of help.”

I grasped his shaft, my fingers barely went halfway round, both of my hands fitted easily between the root and the head. I tugged on the fattening flesh, drawing his think foreskin over a slick wet tip.

“That’s it, my girl,” Daddy crooned, “Give ‘im what ‘e needs.”

I lifted that big cock to my mouth and licked the wet end with my tongue-tip, lingering lasciviously on the little crease. I could feel the blood coursing into the shaft as I drew his foreskin back all the way and exposed a glistening head with a high swollen ridge. With some effort I managed to get his bell-end into my mouth; I sucked, hard and greedily. Daddy moaned as I started to massage his grizzled scrotum, gently jiggling testicles the size and shape of hens’ eggs.

“Use them tits now girl,” Daddy husked.

I pressed my breasts around his throbbing shaft, pushing them together, lifting them up and down. I couldn’t help but giggle as I looked at Daddy’s polished bell slipping in and out of my cleavage. His cook was so long I could have it between my tits and lick it at the same time.

Daddy laughed, then commanded, “Up on the bed, my beauty, let’s get a look at your little Jack and Danny, then!”

I sprawled on the bed and spread my legs as wide as they could go. With my fingers I held my hairy lips open so that Daddy could see just how wet I was for him.

There was a moment, a very fleeting moment, but a moment none-the-less, when I remembered Stevie pushing himself into me. It passed in a second, but Daddy saw it.

“Don’t you worry my dear,” he said, “Don’t you never worry about me. I never took what wasn’t given, leastways not from a woman.” His long fingers stroked my legs, my thighs. My cunt ached for his touch, but he avoided it, making delicate sensual circles on my tummy before moving his hands to my breasts.

Gently at first, Daddy kneaded and moulded my boobs, his fingers flicking at my tingling nipples. I felt a huge moan erupt from deep inside me.

“Harder, Daddy, harder. Squeeze my tits, pinch my nipples. Oh God, do it, Daddy!” He needed no second telling. Daddy Collinge mashed my breasts like a baker with the dough, pulling on my teats, rough and hard.

My hands were still on my cunt, and now, instinctively, I started to rub my mound. I had never masturbated before, it was a taboo back then, but that night as Daddy pummelled my tits, I rubbed my cunny like I was born doing it!

I was starting to feel that electric buzz of orgasm build in me, bolts of pleasure streaking from every part of my body straight down to my wet and ready core. My breathing was growing rapid and shallow, I was about to explode when suddenly Daddy pulled my hands away from my twat.

“Hohoho,” he chuckled, “Ain’t you the wild one? But it’s me what gives out the goodies to his little girl.” His fingers entwined and locked with mine and he raised my arms above my head. I could feel the huge wet bulb of his penis against my hots wet fanny.

He saw the sliver of fear that passed over my face.

“Don’t you worry, my da’ling,” he whispered, “I ain’t never going to hurt yer. Think of it like this. If your Milk and Honey can let a whole baby out, it can certainly take a whole Daddy in!”

As I let out a peel of lust-fuelled laughter, he pushed himself into me.

If was…amazing. I can’t find the words, even now. I opened to him like a flower in spring sunshine and he filled me as sure as the rivers fill the sea. Not just my sex, he filled my whole being with waves of sheer delight. Colours flooded my mind, sparks and shocks zipped through my body. Daddy was inside me, claiming me, like no other man. The further he pushed, the more of me that was his. There’s no other way to explain it.

Finally it was just too much, my orgasm was a rainbow of colour and sound and feeling. I screamed in pleasure, howling like bitch in heat as I came again and again in great tidal waves of joy.

Then to my surprise, Daddy pulled out, and slapped his great cock onto my belly. I looked down to see rivulets of thick semen spurt from the end, up towards my tits.

“Rub it in, girl! Rub it in!” he commanded. I smeared his spunk over my tits, the powerful manly scent and the warm sensation on my tingling nipples bringing another unexpected orgasmic wave.

I lay in his arms until my breathing settled and the explosions died down to a pleasant glow.

“You didn’t have to do that, Daddy,” I said, gently, “I’m on the pill, you know.”

“That may be, Little Lottie,” he smiled, “but old ‘abits die hard.”

Of course, I mused, internally. He’s been doing this since before the pill was invented. Again I wondered just how old Daddy Collinge was.

We lay together until the dawn lit up the rooftops of old London town. Then we dressed and Daddy took me to the elevator.

“Mr Perrott will be waiting for you outside,” he said as he gazed at me once more, “Thank you for a lovely time. Are you busy next Friday?”

“No, Daddy,” I told him, as I kissed his cheek, “On Friday, I am yours.”

 

And that was how it went, right through the autumn of that year. Friday night, seven o’clock pick-up, nice restaurant and then the best sex any girl could want. Followed by a run home in the early morning sunlight.

One morning I decided to ask Fred Perrott about something that had been on my mind.

“Mr Perrott?”

“Yes miss?”

“That night, back in the summer, the Kaminsky boy said Stevie had left the country. Is that true?”

“Yes miss, it is.”

I shuddered, “Where is he? I really don’t want to meet him again….not after…”

“You mustn’t worry, miss. Master Steven won’t never bother you again.”

“But where is he?” I persisted.

“Well…” Mr Perrot considered his answer, “down the East End, people believe ‘e’s in Marbella, looking after the family interests in Spain. But I can tell you, miss, that ain’t the case.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Do you really want to know where he is, miss? Once you hear it, you can’t unhear it. Know what I’m saying?”

I steadied myself, “Please Fred, Mr Perrott, tell me.”

“I think Fred is fine now, miss,” he gave a little cough, “Master Steven is in a special hospital in Switzerland having his legs rebuilt.”

“What?” I gave a gasp, “What happened?”

“Well, miss, ‘e had a bit of an accident. Fell down some stairs. In a tool shop it was. Shattered both his knees on a claw-hammer. Unlucky, eh?”

In the mirror, Fred Perrott was grinning in satisfaction. I tried not to smile, but when I remembered the marks on my neck, I couldn’t stop myself.

 

Then between Christmas and the New Year of 1980 – 81, came the bombshell.

Fred came to the house, it wasn’t a day we were due to meet, so I was surprised.

“You ‘ave to come, miss.”

“But, Mr Perrott, I’m not dressed properly or anything.”

“That don’t matter tonight, miss. Just you come as you are.”

“But…”

“Mr Collinge don’t see the clothes, miss. Never. ‘E sees you how you are. You’re always beautiful to him, even if you dress in a bin-bag.”

I laughed despite myself, and quickly grabbed my coat and got in the car. Fred drove me to the address near King’s Cross. It felt strange going up in the lift on my own, but at the top there was Aubrey. I followed him into the apartment.

For a long time he just held me as we looked out over the rooftops. Then he took me by the shoulders and looked me in the eyes.

“This is the end, little Lottie.” he began, I tried to protest but he shushed me quiet, “You see, I got a little visitor, ‘E’s been in there a little while now, and he’s living and growing in a place they can’t operate.”

I gasped out loud.

“Shush now.” he chid, softly, “Listen to me, Lottie, I ain’t got long. A year at most, weeks maybe. And the time I got left ain’t going to be pretty.”

I could feel tears come into my eyes as he went on.

“I want you to remember me as I was, not what I’m going to be. So this is it, my da’ling. This is goodbye, Little Lottie.”

I buried my face in his chest and cried. He stoked my hair, whispering to me, consoling.

When I was calm, he took my jaw in his huge hand and looked at me again, his beautiful grey eyes serious, yet still warm.

“Something you got to promise me, my girl. You don’t come lookin’. Understand? I don’t want that. And what it does come, I don’t want you at the funeral. I know lots of ugly people, and they won’t see the beauty of what we had together, you and me. They’ll only see their own reflected ugliness. So stay away. Promise me now!”

“I…. I... p-p-promise...” I stammered, how could I refuse?

“When the time is right, Fred will come to you and bring you to the place.” he gulped now, “But I won’t be there. Not like this. Remember this.”

 

That was nearly forty years ago. That time lives in my memory, fresh as the days it all happened. Of course there have been others: I’ve been married twice – to good men. I can say I have loved then dearly and passionately. But I haven’t forgotten Aubrey.

I’ll be sixty next year – an old lady. Although I have to say sixty now isn’t like sixty when I was a chit. For one thing there’s still sex! Oh yes, my second husband likes his portion, so there is definitely sex. Maybe there always was.

Even at sixty I’ll still be nearly 20 years younger than Aubrey Collinge was when I met him. And even if I make it deep into my seventies, and even if I find a toyboy, hung like a horse, who’s willing to serve up an old granny like me, there will still be only one man who lived that made me feel so special.

That made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.


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