Dirty Daddies Underground

Warning: This book contains strong b**m themes, including the men being called Daddy. Harper’s POV Mark storms past me without a word and snatches the glass off the counter with a grip a little too tight for comfort. I stay still in the chair, my eyes trained on him, as I watch every movement like a cornered animal watches its captor. He doesn't look at me though, at least now yet. Instead, he sinks into the armchair across from mine. Slowly, he leans forward and begins to gather the crumpled bills on the table. I watch as his fingers move fast, mechanically, showing he's done this too many times before. He counts in complete silene, his lips pressed into a thin line. Suddenly, his brow furrows and he looks toward me “This is short,” he mutters, and I can hear the accusation in his words already. Short? That’s not possible. “It’s not,” I say quickly. “Yes, it is,” he snaps, lifting his head now, his eyes sharp and narrow. He glares at me, waiting for me to explain. “It’s the agreed amount. You heard them, the prices are dropping. I can’t force people to pay more than they want to.” He exhales through his nose in that sharp, familiar way that means his temper is winding up, not down. Nothing I say right now will stop his anger, no matter how I try to calm this, it won't work. “And I told you to offer them extras. Something to sweeten the deal.” He sighs and points to my body like it's that simple. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. His extras could go suck a d*ck. “They weren’t interested,” I lie, before shrugging my shoulder with forced nonchalance. He scoffs, like I'm lying, and I guess I am. After a long time working, selling my body, I hate the thought of or*l, it became one of my most hated acts with strangers, so I refuse it now. Across the room, Lesley lets herself melt into the sofa like she belongs there, like she’s earned that ease. She's someone I hate as well. I’ve always thought of her as something like a veteran in this business, if it even qualifies as one. She sells herself with a certain pride, as though she’s ascended above shame. I don’t know why she hovers around us. Pity, maybe. Entertainment. Or maybe she sees something of her younger self in me, and likes the reminder. “You’re looking in the wrong places,” she says lazily. My blood chills. No, no, please don’t... don’t you f*cking dare. I shake my head fast and hard, urging her not to do this. Mark turns toward her. “What does that mean?” She smirks and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’re still hoping to make money from the street? That’s old news. There are apps now. Daddies Kingdom, Daddies Underground, Sugar Babies, Domme Kingdom.” Mark squints, confused. “Can you say that in simple f*****g terms?” She rolls her eyes like he's ridiculous for not knowing. “They’re platforms. Mostly kink-based. Most users are legit and they don’t even call it pr*stitution. As long as you don’t spell it out, they pretend it’s not there.” “It’s not right,” I say quickly. I know full well it’s safer than what I’m doing now, but I can’t bring myself to cross that line. Not yet and maybe never. “Oh, it is,” Lesley says, still smiling. “Those apps are all about connecting submissives, slaves, littles, whatever, with dominants, dommes, sugar daddies. There are two roles: the one who pays, and the one who gets paid.” Mark lets out a bark of laughter. “People pay for that sh*t?” Without missing a beat, Lesley pulls out her phone and tosses it into his lap. “Take a look. I’ve seen listings for a few grand for a date, even thirty thousand for a single night.” That's all that was needed to grab his attention. His fingers tighten around the phone and his gaze is glued to the screen now. I cross my arms over my chest, and begin to speak slowly, deliberately. "Mark. I am not comfortable meeting people online. At least on the street I can see them first, maybe get a look at their license plate. I could see what their car is, recognise their demeanor. Online though, it's a blind f*cking guess." Turning his head toward me, he stares me down. The look he gives me is thick with something like resentment, disappointment and greed all twisted together and aimed at me. “You’re in debt for over a hundred thousand dollars, Harper. I’m sick of waiting for pennies.” My throat tightens and I bite my bottom lip until I taste blood. The debt isn’t mine, no matter how often Mark says it is. But the way he tells it, you’d think I’d been the one who handed the house over in flames. It was the fire, and yes maybe some of it was my fault, but not everything. He left a space heater running in the basement, one of those old, rattling things that should’ve been thrown out a decade ago. He said he was trying to keep the pipes from freezing. I told him repeatedly not to use it, that we needed a new one. But he did anyway, and when it caught, it took everything, walls, furniture, photo albums, even the damn cat. When the insurance company came to inspect, they found the heater had melted down to a black husk in the wreckage. They said it was an unapproved device with faulty wiring, and the fire was caused by negligence. The payout was denied on the spot. But Mark didn’t blame the heater, no, he blamed me. “You left it plugged in,” he swore. “You were down there doing laundry. You must’ve forgotten.” I hadn’t. I hadn’t even stepped into the basement that week, but it didn’t matter. His voice got louder and his eyes got wilder, then soon, he was telling everyone the same story. That it was my fault the house was gone and that I owed him. Now, I’m stuck trying to scrape together what I can, paying down a debt that I didn’t create, haunted by a lie that’s easier for him to live with than the truth. Sometimes I try to remember what it was like before all this. I try to remember our relationship before the fire, before the debt, before my name became synonymous with guilt in his mouth. There were good days once, most days were good before the fire. I remember laughter in the kitchen, the soft heat of his hand on my back, I even remember the little promises he whispered at night. But even those memories feel poisoned now, like a rotten root growing flowers that are born dead and the sweetness in them is laced with something bitter, and the warmth has long since turned cold. I stay because I tell myself I have nowhere else to go, and maybe that's true. My mom stopped calling me years ago, long before the fire happened. That was how I ended up living with him. My friends disappeared one by one as well. Each one ghosted out of my life as I stopped replying and showing up. Somewhere along the way, it became easier to lie than to admit that I was ashamed. It was easier to say I was tired or working late than explain why my eyes were always glassy and my smile never quite reached my eyes or looked real. But the truth is, I stay because part of me believes this is all I deserve. Part of my stays because in my mind, he's not that bad, right? He doesn’t hit me, and he never has. For a while, well, years, I clung to that like a life raft. As if the absence of bruises made it okay. As if insults that he whispered between clenched teeth didn’t leave their own kind of scars. He doesn’t shout often either, that’s the thing. He says it all quietly, with a thin smile, and acts like he’s doing me a favor just by staying and keeping me with him. “You’d be on the street if it weren’t for me.” “No one else would ever put up with you.” “I take care of you, don’t I?” And I nod, because I don’t know what else to do. Somewhere deep down, I know those aren’t words or acts of kindnesses, they’re chains and he sees me as a possession. But when you hear the same thing enough times, it starts to sound like truth. Especially when there’s no one left to contradict him. Which I don't have. I have no one to argue and fight with him, and tell me it's wrong. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve become smaller just to fit inside the life he’s given me. The money on the table is still there, sitting between us like a judgment because it's not enough. It never is and I know what’s coming next. He’ll push for more and now he knows about them, he’ll want me to sign up for the apps. He's going to ask me to smile at strangers and pretend it’s all my choice, and the worst is, I’ll do it. I don't want to, but I've forgotten how to say no without fear. I also don't believe there's anything else left for me, and maybe, this is the only kind of love I'll ever get or deserve. Mark stands and moves to the small table where I usually keep my phone. I watch as he picks it up without my permission. It's pointless me locking it, it turns into an argument of 'What are you hiding' or 'Who the f*ck are you speaking to in private?' Yeah, locking the screen is pointless, it causes more drama. I watch as he taps at the screen, and I sit here rigidly, my eyes never leaving his hands. I know he's doing something I won't like, I can feel it in my bones. “You’re going to reply to some of these,” he says flatly. My stomach drops instantly and the room feels suddenly colder and tighter. I’ve never done anything like this before. Yes, I’ve sold myself for s*x, but this feels different. This feels like stepping into another world entirely. A world that has masks and roles, where everything is negotiated but nothing feels real, it will feel like a act, a play of some sort. “Maybe we could try a new location instead?” I ask weakly hoping for something to save me from this. Mark doesn’t even look at me and I know he's not even considering it. He shakes his head and lowers himself onto the sofa beside me and the leather creaks under his weight. “Here,” he says as he shoves the phone toward me. “Message this guy first.” I take the phone hesitantly and glance at the profile on the screen. The man is in his late forties. No... wait. My heart almost stops when I read his age. He’s fifty-three. I’m twenty-five. He’s more than twice my age, something sour rises in my throat at that fact.