The Good Father Read Online Free PDF

her hand to his erection. His lips close against her ear, he groaned, such a longing, needy sound, infecting her with his lust. Her free hand pressed against the damp wall, the filthy old brick crumbling in her curling fingers as Jack ground himself against her; he grunted, bending his knees, pushing up her skirt and tugging at her knickers until they fell around her ankles. Covering her mouth with his, he thrust his fingers inside her.
    She turned her face away from his. ‘Jack, wait . . .’
    â€˜Let me, please.’ His fingers still inside her, he rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her face as he whispered, ‘Please . . . I love you, you know I love you.’
    She closed her eyes. He had withdrawn his fingers, had begun to work on that place that would bring her to climax. She groaned, opening her legs a little more as she felt herself slump against the wall. He kissed her and she heard the smile in his voice as he said, ‘There, you like that. You’re so wet. Little hussy, little bitch on heat . . . there!’
    She came, arching her body against his, her head back so that her throat was exposed. He bit into her neck delicately even as he put his leg between hers so that she could ride out her orgasm. Then, quickly, he was unbuttoning his flies and closing her hand around his cock as he took a Johnny from his pocket.
    â€˜Ready?’
    She nodded, wrapping her legs around his waist as he entered her. Deep inside he stopped, drawing his head back a little to look at her. ‘Good?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    He grinned, but then his face became anonymous again, that of every man who had ever fucked. She closed her eyes, catching the dog-piss-and-rain stink of the wall as he reached his own climax. 

Chapter 3
    It’s very odd how empty and silent the house feels now. Even though in the last few months of his life he never left his bedroom, my father’s presence made itself felt. I was always listening for the thump of his walking stick on the bedroom floor whenever he wanted me to attend to him, a noise that seemed to travel along the crack in the dining-room ceiling and threaten to bring down lumps of plaster. Much as I was used to this noise, it would almost always startle me, concentrating as I was on my work, lost in it, often, so that I’d managed almost to forget about him completely. Sometimes, not often, I would make him wait, but the thump-thump-thump would come again – and besides, I had been put on edge, unable to continue. Best if I went to him immediately; he would be calmer then and less inclined to be a swine.
    I was meant to excuse his foul temper, his insults, because he was dying and in pain. But he had been foul and insulting to me all my life, and although I cared for him as best I could, I never felt the pity that most people would have felt. I suppose I never really believed in his pain either, because he seemed so unchanged by it, remaining the nasty, spiteful man he had always been. Only sometimes, when I washed him, or later when I had to move him often to prevent sores, would I see the pain manifest itself in his expression. He would never betray his agony to me in any other way, never tell me that I hurt him, not directly. He would just shout out how clumsy I was, a bloody clumsy half-wit. I tried to be as gentle as I could; I tried to keep him quiet.
    Sometimes, when he was in a more reflective mood, he would tell me how much like my mother I was: useless and ungrateful. ‘That slut,’ he would say, ‘that flighty piece – she cared for nothing and no one, interested only in her fancy men, her own pleasure.’ His lip would curl then and his nostrils flare as if he could still smell her scent on his sheets. He always used the same stock words about her, the same stock phrases. From these words and phrases I’ve gathered that she was blonde and very young, and that she left shortly after I was born with a man I