Chapter 7
It was evening. In July evening came late, and Amanda was looking out the living room window when she heard Ambrose moving behind her. Turning, she saw him in a somewhat disheveled state, and she realized he had been drinking. She made a face of distaste. Her father's drunkenness was what had caused the breakup of her own family life.
"Wassa matter wi' you?" Ambrose asked.
"Nothing," she replied softly, but this time not smiling.
Good! Ambrose liked that.
"M gonna fuck you," Ambrose told her.
Amanda realized he wanted to climb on top of her, and with his breath reeking of the horrid stuff that had all but destroyed her father, he wanted to plunge himself into her. The attack of his cock on her cunt didn't disturb her nearly as much as the idea that he would breathe that disgusting stuff in her face.
"I-if you wish," she finally said, her heart fluttering.
"Damn you to fucking hell!" Ambrose screamed. "What the goddamn fuck is it with you? What does it take to make you scared?"
Amanda was suddenly aware for the first time that he believed she was threatening his masculinity. Here was her opportunity to get out. Much as she liked it here, pleasurable as it felt, she was still very much a captive. Was it possible for her to make Ambrose believe her?
"Well," she said, "to be honest with you, the only thing that would really frighten me is the idea of you suddenly finding some clothing, making me put it all on, and then you throwing me out. You see, I like it here. The only thing I'm afraid of, is being made to leave."
Sober, Ambrose would have laughed at such a ploy. Drunk, it seemed to almost make sense to him. The bitch actually liked being ordered around. Well, goddamn! Here was his chance to be free of her and at the same time get what he wanted most from her.
"You stay here," he told her, and turning around, left the room.
Five minutes later, Amanda heard the sound of the powerful Rolls-Royce as it pulled out of the garage below, and she saw Ambrose driving off into the coppery sunset. Was it possible he was going to get her some clothes? She would know, eventually.
It was almost two hours before Ambrose returned. He parked the car in the garage, and Amanda heard the garage door close. Two minutes later, he was in the house, and he was tossing some boxes at her.
"I hadda guess at the sizes," he snorted.
Amanda opened the boxes. She found frilly white underpants which she quickly slipped on, then a white cotton brassiere. There was no panty hose, nor were there any shoes, but he gave her back her beach sandals. The pink blouse and lilac skirt fitted her perfectly, though the skirt was a bit long.
"Come on," Ambrose insisted.
"No!" she snapped, not because she wanted to stay, but because it was what she knew he wanted her to say.
"Come on!" he disgustedly told her, gripping her by the wrist and dragging her to the small laundry room off to the side, and from there through a door down into the garage.
Ambrose tossed her into the Rolls, got in beside her, and was about to open the garage door, when a bell went off in his mind.
What the hell was he doing? He was about to drive this bitch to her apartment building and he hadn't even fucked her yet. After two hours, his mind had started sobering just a little. Hell! He wanted to scare the shit out of her, not lose her.