The DILF (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

9: In Which She Meets Ruby

9: In Which She Meets Ruby

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There were exactly three times in my life when I had been utterly and completely speechless.

The first was the day my headmistress pulled me out of class to tell me that the only relatives I had in the entire world – my parents – had been smashed to a pulp in a head-on collision with a half-asleep truck driver on their way back from a camping trip. She'd looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something – or cry – but all I'd done was return her sympathetic gaze. Speechless. My parents had doted on me – a miracle baby when they were both well in their forties – and just like that, they'd been ripped away from me while I'd been passing notes in History. I was turning eighteen in a few days' time; I wouldn't go through the hell that was foster care and that gave me hope. Still, I wasn't physically able to say anything to Mrs. Bradley. She'd called it shock.

The second time was right before I'd taken my vow of chastity. It was stupid but even now, it rankled me.

I had liked sex. Far too much. Looking back, I'd probably been addicted to it, although I would never have admitted it to myself or anyone else. I wasn't exactly easy but then again, I wasn't a nun. Callum had been my first boyfriend and my first shag. He'd sucked at it but I grew up and moved on – to real men. Sex had probably been my way of getting close to someone because I had no one. No one. It was twisted but I'd needed that closeness. My parents were dead and I was alone and I liked the way men made me feel in bed.

His name was Rob and I still forget where I'd met him. All I remember is that he was an Australian realtor holidaying in London. He had sandy-blonde hair and incredibly green eyes. He'd also been into bondage and preferred to come on my face, preferably if I was wearing make-up.

"And to think," he'd panted with transparent glee, gripping his cock in one hand and expelling his cum onto me, "that you're...someone's...daughter."

Well, I'd immediately burst into tears and scared the hell out of him. In fact, I'd scared myself. It had felt like a dam had burst and I couldn't stop the deluge no matter how much I tried; no matter how much a freaked-out Rob tried. I'd gone through the humiliation of cleaning myself up in his hotel room and retreated to my flat the whole weekend, replaying his words in my head and not knowing what exactly I was weeping about.

God, what would my parents think? What would they say? I'd let him do...things to me; dirty things. I was someone's daughter.

I'd used their deaths as an excuse to practically whore myself out to anyone who made me smile; made me feel like I had someone, even if it was only for a weekend. My parents had done nothing but shower me with enough love to last a lifetime – and I'd grown up to throw it back in their faces, working at a job I hated for a man I hated and spending a couple odd weeks with a different man in my bed – which I surreptitiously hated.

Monday morning was the last straw: Richard Pritchett, Jnr. asked me to suck his dick for a raise. I'd told him to stick it in a pencil sharpener instead and go fuck himself. Then I quit and cleared my desk.

I was with Father Logan by lunchtime, confessing everything. He'd known my parents. He knew me. Too much...bad had happened to me and, like my parents had done so when they were alive, I'd sought solace in the church. It was on that day – in Father Logan's tidy little vestry – that I finally cried for my parents' senseless death. I finally cried for the baby Callum and I had made in university; the baby that had been inside me for twenty-three days before I'd miscarried. And I finally cried for myself, because secretly, I was glad that it had disappeared.