Rey's got this down to a science. Wear a semi-revealing outfit, a getup that makes her look grown-up but still young enough to appear innocent. Smear her lipstick—the messier the better—bat her eyelashes, and teeter around in her tallest heels.
Talk in the sweetest voice as she hands over the 20 and feigns ignorance when they ask for ID. Flippantly says she forgot it at home. A little flirting goes a long way, especially with the seedy gas station attendants out on Highway 59.
They know that she's nowhere near legal, and they don't care. As long as she puts on a show, she gets to walk away scott-free and be back to her friends in no time. It shouldn't be as easy as it is, really.
And the lingering feeling of disgust, of being picked over with their middle-aged stares and sneered at with their rotting teeth, is a small price to pay for skipping the whole fake ID thing. To avoid raiding the liquor cabinet at Finn's house and getting caught again.
Fridays are slow in this part of town, not a soul around for miles. No other patrons or cars in the empty lot. Rey parks her rusted bicycle out front, the hairs prickling down the back of her neck. Breathe. A warning. Who's that watching around the corner?
She whirls around to find no one there.
There isn't any reason to feel this uneasy, she's done this dozens of times, but something feels off. Eerie. It'll be quick, she bargains and trades her scuffed sneakers for shiny heels. Rose had stashed them in the handlebar basket before she left, winked down at the red patent leather, and promised she'd be fine.
One of these days, Rey needs to get a car.
Every step toward the door pinches her feet. It's uncomfortable, the way her tiny skirt rides up her thighs, and for the first time, she feels foolish about coming here instead of powerful. Less of an adult and more like a little kid playing dress up, especially as she pulls at her top in an effort to pull cleavage out of thin fucking air.
"Flat as a board," Hux snickered in P.E. only last week, loud enough for half of the class to hear. She hates how young she looks, hates how hot her cheeks glow at the memory of humiliation and embarrassment.
The scent of stale cigarettes and burnt oil is always the same when she pushes through the door. A shitty classic rock station crackles through the speakers, shorting out every couple of measures. You shouldn't be here. Something like dread twists in her stomach, knot after knot in her intestines, and if she wasn't wearing these stupid shoes, she would've run by now.
However, she can't place the reason why.
Even as she clicks across the floor, her shoulders tremble, hands clammy and numb.
When she makes it up to the register, it clicks.
It isn't the usual guy with pocked scars, always asking if she has a boyfriend yet.
Not the community college dropout who calls her, Sweet Thing, and smirks.
This man is new and stands well over 6 feet tall, sporting barrel-width shoulders above a thick torso. His hair is grown out, tucked behind prominent ears, the rest swept back into a ballcap that looks about as old as Rey's social security card.
The crooked name tag pinned to his red flannel shirt simply reads BEN.
And he doesn't say a word when she drops the cans onto the counter with a sudden thud, just stars down his nose, rolling a toothpick between his front teeth. Scratching at a slightly unkempt beard. Waiting patiently.
Run, her gut jolts, but she anchors herself on the spot.
"Just these," she squeaks, barely recognizing her own voice. Jesus.
Ben hums lowly in his chest and remains motionless. Cocks a single brow and thrums a few oil-stained fingers on the register, dark eyes roving her over from head to toe. Despite the fact that he's said nothing, she feels more violated than ever. Those other two losers seem harmless in this light.
"ID?" He finally speaks, but it's intelligible, more of a grunt than a question.
"I uh–forgot it at home. Silly me." She tries to smile, but her lips refuse to part.
All he gives is another stare. A dry chuckle before spitting the toothpick into a small trash can.
"How old are you?" Spoken like he already knows.
"21." She needs to get the hell out of here.
Ben shakes his head. No, his silence shouts, try again.
"The other attendants never care," Rey mumbles and takes a single step backward.
"Well, I'm not the other attendants, am I?"
"S-sorry, you're right. I'll go." She braves another step, intending to blindly feel her way to the exit because her senses are screaming that she absolutely should not turn her back at this moment.
"Got big plans tonight?" He slinks out from behind the counter, steel-toed boots clunking across the linoleum.
Rey chews on her bottom lip and deliberates between telling the truth or a lie. She glances out the yellowed windows, wondering if she should try and make a break for it, and has the sickening feeling that he'll detect a deception. That he won't be happy about it.
She nods.
"Not anymore, little miss."
Ben covers the distance to the front door in three, long strides, flipping the open sign to CLOSED, and locking the deadbolt behind it. Please, don't let this be happening. He advances step by agonizing step, stalking his prey like a dog, and cages her up against the packs of gum and rows of candy bars.
This was a mistake.
"Please, I'm sorry, just let me leave. I won't come back, I promise." Rey's eyes well with tears and she frantically scans around for a way out. He's so close by now, only inches away, with his hands gripping the shelves behind her head.
She tries to slip out from underneath his arms, falling for a moment of her own stupidity, but he's lightning-fast, grabbing her shoulder with a force that almost brings her to her knees.
"Ah-ah, I don't think so," he growls. "Can't believe my employees have been selling alcohol to horrible little girls like you. Makes me wonder what other trouble you've been up to, hm?" Ben clenches his jaw and brushes a grimy hand over her cheek. He seems amused at her terror, tickled at how she trembles uncontrollably at his touch.
In all of her time in foster care, shuttled between worn-out parents and those who didn't care whatsoever, landing with Plutt as a last resort, she's never felt so small. Plutt may be an ass, a drunk one at that, but he's never looked at her like this like he wants to strangle and subsequently devour her in bitesize pieces.
When the stranger leans in, wafts of spicy aftershave and burnt coffee make bile burn in the back of her throat. Everything she's ever learned about self-defense flies from her head. She shuffles her feet, deciding once again to duck, but he's quicker than she is—he's already anticipated every move.
It happens in nanoseconds. Ben grabbing her around the waist, tossing her flailing body over his shoulder the way a child would a toy. Rey screams before she realizes it, and begins to pound on the muscles in his back, but he's completely unbothered, nearly unphased, as he drags her to the back of the store.
He lumbers on through a meager office, the desks littered with papers and empty beer cans, and kicks open an outside door. That's about when she realizes this is going to be a lot worse than she expected.
It's fruitless, but she thrashes in his grip, twisting and turning, wearing herself out until she falls limp against his chest. Let me go, let me go. His forearm is hooked firmly around her middle, solid in a way that proves this isn't strenuous for him at all, a hint that maybe he's done this before.
Keys jingle and panic punches through her lungs, rising in the instant she makes sense of the distinct pop of a trunk. He deposits her calmly on the carpeted interior, gathering her wrists in a single hand, and wills her to be still, hunches down to the shell of her ear.
"Scream all you'd like, darlin', but there's no one around to hear it." Ben pulls away with a flash of his teeth, a glinting between a grin and a snarl, then slams the hatch shut as she begins to sob. No getting out of this, Rey faces alone, throat raw and snot dripping to her collar.
The further he drives, the more exhausted she feels, and inevitably, she's unable to stave off the fatigue. Sleep comes for us all, whether we're ready to accept it, or not, and surprisingly, the hum of the engine is a lullaby she finds familiar.
//
Ten Days Later
Ben flares his nostrils. The girl smells like vanilla sugar, burned between notes of chamomile and honey spice. It's saturated his entire house, making his stomach churn as he paces the wooden floorboards and ponders what to do when she wakes this time. He's becoming more irritated and impatient.
Usually, his delicacies give up resisting within days, sometimes a week. She's held out longer than any of them and he aches from head to toe.
There was a time when he met women the standard way, but that was years ago. Before the stint in prison, the reappearance of a once-expunged record. His tastes have changed over the years, and he needs them younger, now. Moldable and malleable, a girl that can grow into loving him.
He brushes his fingers over the oozing bite mark on his wrist, courtesy of his lovely guest, and he winces sharply. It's quite a nasty one, even left his blood smeared over her cherry-red lips. She coos in her sleep and clutches the cotton candy sheets with childlike fists. Can't be older than 15 or 16.
She's lucky it was him that scooped her up first. There worse predators out there.
The sun peaks over the horizon, nearly to the top of the hour, and he resumes the process of brewing the saccharine tea. Sickly sweet and hopefully, strong enough to pacify her this time.
Across the room, her head lolls to the edge of the pillow, hazel eyes blinking open, still glazed over and sleepy. Ben guides the ceramic to her teeth, gently coaxing the syrup onto her tongue. She swallows it down in greedy gulps, whimpering once or twice. The innocent noise makes his dick throb.
She's more placid now, all docile limbs and pliable flesh in the hollow of his palm.
He heaves a sigh of relief, and parts her freckled legs with his right knee, groaning at the new glimpse of her dripping cunt. Untouched, ripe, and oh, so perfectly preserved for him. He'll need to take his time devouring this one, give himself the chance to come back again and again, to satisfy this craving before she spoils.
"B-Ben? Please," she moans, chin dropping to her chest, "...let me go. I'll be good, won't tell, 'kay?"
Hear how his sweet, slick little girl pleads? He pats himself on the back for installing those security cameras so long ago. He'll be able to relive this moment as often as he likes.
"Shush, sweetheart. Gotta save your strength." He grabs his cock through his jeans, giving it a few rough tugs before using the same hand to stroke her forehead. Soft and slow until her eyelids flutter closed once more.
"Please." The whites of her eyes roll back as the sunlight streams over her face, golden beams braided into the strands of her hair. He fights back the urge to wrap his hand around her throat: Not yet, not yet.
"Go to sleep, honey. Papa's here to keep you safe." Precum leaks through his boxers, damp and sticky, rubbing along his tip while he parts a finger through her folds, over the thatch of hair between her legs, revealing in the warmth of her wetness and readiness for him.
Despite inching in as gradually as possible, he senses she's in pain, can read it in the scrunching of her nose, the groaning in the back of her larynx. She sleeps fitfully, writhing and spasming under the weight of his body, but he presses on because god, she feels good and right and heavenly.
In the glow of the sunrise, Ben settles on the certainty that there is a reason why none of the other ones ever worked out. This is it, the tiny thing splayed out on his spare mattress, barely-there tits bouncing with every thrust back into her perfect pussy.
He knows he can fit one entirely in his mouth, tongue pressed flat to her rosy pink nipple. He'd tried it the first night he'd brought her home.
It's getting more difficult to hold himself back, even the prospect of hurting her accidentally does little to dredge his worry back up. If there was a headboard, he'd be clinging on for dear life, but he'd cracked it weeks ago.
That first afternoon he noticed her, the day he'd been moping around in the back of the store and prolonging the drive home, he nearly snatched her right then and there. Seriously thought about sending Mitaka home for the day in the middle of his shift, but there was planning to be done.
Preparations were to be made if he was going to do this right.
The bed had been spotless then, with pale pink sheets and plush-down comforter, but in an attempt to blow off some steam (for the tenth time in the last 48 hours), he split one of the wooden posts in two. Failed to realize his mistake until the deed was over, until it was too late to repair properly.
And is it relevant now? Not in the slightest. Not when he's sheathed inside of her, not as he rocks her back into dreamland, pulling out and sliding back in balls deep, connecting into the deepest notch of her baby cunt.
"Papa was made for you, little one. Can't you see? You were meant to be mine, meant to belong to someone who loves you." Ben is close to the end, sputtering through nonsense terms of endearment and promises of forever, babbling into the ears of a slumbering girl.
She'll feel so much better after this, he just knows it. After he gives her what she deserves, when she's full to the brim and satiated into obedience.
"Gonna come in this little hole, alright? Gonna fill you up, keep you here forever," he groans and falls forward, pleasure crashing through his veins in waves as he pumps his seed into her empty womb. She moans between her teeth, still languid and unconscious. Good, growing girls need their rest.
"Papa loves you, Rey, even when you're horrible. Even when you misbehave, he'll always love his darlin' girl," he sighs into the crook of her neck, nuzzling his nose along the curve of her jaw.
She'll believe him, one day. She has to.