Do Not Disturb
Page 10
I can physically hear his gasps, his begs as he, as excited as I am, pleads for his life. And when he comes, when his breaths become short and fast and finally stop—I imagine that I am done. That the life has left his body, that he is dead and I have killed him. And that final image pacifies my sick mind for the rest of the night.
That night, I sleep like a baby.
CHAPTER 10
TWO NIGHTS LATER. I pull a load of laundry out of the dryer, the job made easy by the fact that 90 percent of the items are in delicate-garment bags, mesh pouches that protect my lingerie and subdivide the majority of my laundry, a few pairs of sweats added in. I hold the phone in the crook of my shoulder, glancing at the wall clock as I move.
“I’ve got to go. I have a call scheduled in a few minutes.”
“I should be headed to my sister’s house anyway. Is it Paul?”
I grin at Jeremy’s response. “Yes, it’s Paul. I’ve got to stop talking to you about clients. I’ll lose my rep for secrecy.”
I shouldn’t talk to him about my clients. I’ve always freely discussed them with Dr. Bryan, my sex therapist, our conversations protected by the beautiful cloud of doctor/client confidentiality. But my conversations with Jeremy don’t have that protection. If he wanted, he could put a billboard on the side of I-10, broadcasting my clients’ secrets across four lanes of freeway traffic. I’m not sure who would pay attention. No one knows who IWearMommasPanties42 is. I could find out, if I cared enough to sic Mike on them. But I don’t dig, and Jeremy doesn’t know usernames or specific intimate details. I’ve only discussed a few clients with him—my regulars. Paul, the sweetheart who calls me daily, madly in love with a figment of my imagination. Frankie, my latest FinDom client, a relationship which will last until he depletes his bank account. DoctorPat, my resident physician, who prescribes me the pills I pay Simon with in exchange for watching him corrupt his ass with whatever phallic-shaped item he has handy.
“Paul gets more conversation time in than I do.”
I hesitate in my steps to the bed, unsure at the tone in his voice. Is it jealousy? I am so out of practice that I don’t know. But it seems, from the subtle hints he occasionally drops, that the emotional clients bother him more than the physical. Which, in some ways I get. In other ways, this entire relationship is screwed six ways to Sunday, an hour-long chat with a lonely man being the least of our hurdles.
“We still on for the movies tomorrow night?” he asks.
I upend the laundry basket onto my cam bed, tossing the plastic bin to the side and beginning the super-exciting process of unzipping and dumping out the mesh bags of lingerie. “I don’t know if you can call four o’clock night… but yeah. I haven’t made other plans.” My other cell, the one I use while camming, vibrates against the wood of my desk. I speak quickly. “I got to go.”
“Bye, babe.” There is a smile in his voice and my own face responds, curving upward.
“Bye.”
I end the call and answer the second¸ moving to my computer as I speak.
“Hey, Paul.”
“Hey. I’m in the chatroom.”
I scroll through my site, find the private chatroom with Paul’s username in it, and click. Start the clock, then put my laptop down, moving back to the laundry. “Got it. I’m in. How’s your day going?”
We settle into conversation, the words flowing easily. I know him, in all honesty, better than Jeremy. I can predict his responses, can tell you the name of every member of his family, his best friend growing up, the last five repairs he did to the barely-a-classic Bronco he’s driven since high school. And he thinks that he knows everything about me. I stopped making up things on our third chat, when I realized his memory could be listed as a registered weapon it is so sharp. I use as many real names and details as I can, dutifully recording everything that I tell him on a notepad I keep for our chats. During our calls I live in a world I once knew—that of a college freshman, sharing details of my old roommate, Jenny, a girl who is probably now pregnant and married, but—in my warped sense of time—lives in the connected apartment and never buys laundry detergent, hangs wet towels all over the porch, and goes through relationship drama with every male she can find. He knows about Summer and Trent, though—in my fairy-tale world—they are still alive, anxiously waiting for me to get home for break. Trent recently developed an obsession with video games, Summer is trying out for Pee Wee cheerleading. I love our chats. I love the admiration and warmth that fills his voice, the way he pictures me. In Paul’s mind, I am perfect. And, in the world I create on our calls, my life is perfect. No thoughts of murder, no blood in my past. My family is alive and normal; they love me. My world is open and free; I am a normal college student with normal problems. Finals. Best friend drama. The difficult decision of whether I should spend spring break in Cabo or Panama City Beach.
That night, I sleep like a baby.
CHAPTER 10
TWO NIGHTS LATER. I pull a load of laundry out of the dryer, the job made easy by the fact that 90 percent of the items are in delicate-garment bags, mesh pouches that protect my lingerie and subdivide the majority of my laundry, a few pairs of sweats added in. I hold the phone in the crook of my shoulder, glancing at the wall clock as I move.
“I’ve got to go. I have a call scheduled in a few minutes.”
“I should be headed to my sister’s house anyway. Is it Paul?”
I grin at Jeremy’s response. “Yes, it’s Paul. I’ve got to stop talking to you about clients. I’ll lose my rep for secrecy.”
I shouldn’t talk to him about my clients. I’ve always freely discussed them with Dr. Bryan, my sex therapist, our conversations protected by the beautiful cloud of doctor/client confidentiality. But my conversations with Jeremy don’t have that protection. If he wanted, he could put a billboard on the side of I-10, broadcasting my clients’ secrets across four lanes of freeway traffic. I’m not sure who would pay attention. No one knows who IWearMommasPanties42 is. I could find out, if I cared enough to sic Mike on them. But I don’t dig, and Jeremy doesn’t know usernames or specific intimate details. I’ve only discussed a few clients with him—my regulars. Paul, the sweetheart who calls me daily, madly in love with a figment of my imagination. Frankie, my latest FinDom client, a relationship which will last until he depletes his bank account. DoctorPat, my resident physician, who prescribes me the pills I pay Simon with in exchange for watching him corrupt his ass with whatever phallic-shaped item he has handy.
“Paul gets more conversation time in than I do.”
I hesitate in my steps to the bed, unsure at the tone in his voice. Is it jealousy? I am so out of practice that I don’t know. But it seems, from the subtle hints he occasionally drops, that the emotional clients bother him more than the physical. Which, in some ways I get. In other ways, this entire relationship is screwed six ways to Sunday, an hour-long chat with a lonely man being the least of our hurdles.
“We still on for the movies tomorrow night?” he asks.
I upend the laundry basket onto my cam bed, tossing the plastic bin to the side and beginning the super-exciting process of unzipping and dumping out the mesh bags of lingerie. “I don’t know if you can call four o’clock night… but yeah. I haven’t made other plans.” My other cell, the one I use while camming, vibrates against the wood of my desk. I speak quickly. “I got to go.”
“Bye, babe.” There is a smile in his voice and my own face responds, curving upward.
“Bye.”
I end the call and answer the second¸ moving to my computer as I speak.
“Hey, Paul.”
“Hey. I’m in the chatroom.”
I scroll through my site, find the private chatroom with Paul’s username in it, and click. Start the clock, then put my laptop down, moving back to the laundry. “Got it. I’m in. How’s your day going?”
We settle into conversation, the words flowing easily. I know him, in all honesty, better than Jeremy. I can predict his responses, can tell you the name of every member of his family, his best friend growing up, the last five repairs he did to the barely-a-classic Bronco he’s driven since high school. And he thinks that he knows everything about me. I stopped making up things on our third chat, when I realized his memory could be listed as a registered weapon it is so sharp. I use as many real names and details as I can, dutifully recording everything that I tell him on a notepad I keep for our chats. During our calls I live in a world I once knew—that of a college freshman, sharing details of my old roommate, Jenny, a girl who is probably now pregnant and married, but—in my warped sense of time—lives in the connected apartment and never buys laundry detergent, hangs wet towels all over the porch, and goes through relationship drama with every male she can find. He knows about Summer and Trent, though—in my fairy-tale world—they are still alive, anxiously waiting for me to get home for break. Trent recently developed an obsession with video games, Summer is trying out for Pee Wee cheerleading. I love our chats. I love the admiration and warmth that fills his voice, the way he pictures me. In Paul’s mind, I am perfect. And, in the world I create on our calls, my life is perfect. No thoughts of murder, no blood in my past. My family is alive and normal; they love me. My world is open and free; I am a normal college student with normal problems. Finals. Best friend drama. The difficult decision of whether I should spend spring break in Cabo or Panama City Beach.
