Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 113(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 113(@300wpm)
Lacey’s life sucks. She has lived with her father ever since her mother died when she was a child. Over the years, he’s gotten more and more abusive toward her. Her only escape is her visits to the Dungeon one night a week when he’s at poker with his buddies.
Brian is a nurse who lives on Regression Island. He visits the Dungeon on the mainland every chance he gets, mostly hoping for a chance to see Lacey, even though she never meets his gaze. He’s determined to get her to talk to him, and he won’t give up until she does.
When Brian arrives at the Dungeon to find several people huddled around a beaten and battered Lacey, all bets are off. She’s going to talk to him whether she wants to or not. And this time, she’s going home with him.
The books in this series include strong elements of medical and age play. If this genre is offensive to you, this may not be the book or series for you.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
“What are you doing?
At the sound of my father’s booming voice, I jump up from the beanbag chair in the corner of my bedroom and face him.
Crap. It’s almost dark out. I’m going to get in so much trouble. “I’m sorry. I was reading. I lost track of time.”
My father fills the entire doorway. The scowl on his face makes me wince. “Reading. Always reading,” he growls as he stomps into the room.
I back up into the corner as he marches toward me. My heart races. He’s going to hit me. Or whip me. I’m in big trouble.
I gasp when he bends down and grabs my book from where I dropped it on the beanbag chair. He tucks it under his arm before reaching for the stack of books on my bedside table next. Without a word, he carries the entire pile out of the room.
Oh, God. This is bad. I run after him. I don’t care what he does to punish me, but I don’t want him to take my books. “Dad, please…”
He ignores me and continues through the house and out the back door.
My heart nearly stops when he balances the books in one arm and opens the metal trash can with the other. He dumps the bundle into the can before turning to me.
“Please,” I beg. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll get dinner ready now.” I stare at the can, hoping it’s not filled with anything wet or gross. Maybe in the middle of the night when he’s sleeping I can sneak out here and get my books back.
He’s too calm as he drops the lid to the trash can on the cracked concrete. I cover my ears at the very loud clanging crash. This patio used to be a nice slab with pretty furniture and a fancy propane BBQ. In the last few years, the yard has turned into an overgrown weedfest. The patio furniture is long gone. All that’s left is a worn lawn chair and a small charcoal BBQ. Most nights my father sits on that chair and smokes.
He pulls his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shakes one onto his palm before lighting it and taking a long draw. “You’re lazy.”
I swallow. I won’t bother arguing with him. It won’t do any good. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time.” I’m kicking myself. I’m supposed to have dinner ready at six, not a minute later. I messed up. I’m going to pay.
“Sorry. Always sorry. Sorry doesn’t put dinner on the table, Lacey. I’m too soft with you. It’s time for you to grow the fuck up. You’re twelve years old.”
I try not to cry. Tears gather in my eyes. I hold my breath, willing them not to fall.
“I work hard to keep a roof over our heads and food in the fridge, Lacey. You’re an ungrateful brat. Your mother was too soft on you.”
The tears break free at the mention of my mother. I miss her so much. Cancer stole her from me two years ago, and my father has been mean and angry ever since.
Granted, he was mostly mean and angry even before my mother died, but he’s been worse since then. He takes his wrath out on me.
The truth is I could have had dinner on the table promptly at six. I could have prepared his favorite meatloaf cooked to perfection and handed him a cold beer when he stepped in the house. Even if I’d done everything right, he still might have lashed out at me.
It doesn’t take much. It’s not even predictable. The food could have been too hot or cold. The chair could have been sticking out from the table too far and caused him to run into it with his hip. The placemat could have been crooked.
I’ve learned I cannot please my father, but I still try. Most of the time. Books are my refuge. I get to go to another world when I read them. Escape. Sometimes I get sucked in and lose track of time.
My father takes several long draws on his cigarette, tipping his head back to blow smoke in the air. It’s gross. It stinks. Mom didn’t let him smoke in the house, but now that she’s gone, he smokes everywhere. I can’t escape it.
I always have a cough. I know it’s from the smoke, but my father refuses to acknowledge that. It’s just another thing for him to get annoyed with me about, especially when I cough in the night and wake him up.
I consider backing into the house to start dinner. I don’t like the way he’s standing here staring at me. He’s far too calm. It’s scaring me.
When I take a step backward, he barks out, “Don’t move.” He takes two more long draws on his gross cigarette and flicks it into the trashcan without putting it out.