The Girl in 6E
Page 17
I don’t need to wonder about what she would have done next. It is a waste of time and energy. I know the things I need to know. I know my murderous obsessions started the night her soul left Earth. I have killed once. I only hope that I can keep myself from killing again.
Wait.
I hear that in my head. Yeah. I know. Wait. I only hope it is God telling me to wait and not my mother. Or Satan. Or both. I wonder if my mother was always crazy, or if it came to her, out of nowhere, like it did to me years ago.
CHAPTER 24: April 12th
A perfect storm of events happened on April 12th. I was online with RicktheCPA, who enjoys jacking off to me while at work. Rick is strictly a typer, which I appreciated after the one day he was home sick, and I listened to him through his webcam. He has one of those nerdy, nasally voices that hiccups a bit when he gets excited. It always makes it harder to fake arousal when I am listening to a voice like that.
On April 12th I knelt on the bed, ass in the air, head on the pillow, face turned to the webcam and monitor, so I could read his comments. With my good ear buried in the pillow, and loud moans escaping my mouth, I was both distracted, and practically deaf. Thirty feet away, at my front door, Jeremy knocked. It, and the subsequent knocks, went unheard and ignored.
There was no answer when Jeremy knocked at 1:55 p.m. It was the first time this had ever happened. He waited patiently, a small box from BathJoyX in his hands. She must be in the bathroom. A minute passed, and he shifted impatiently before he knocked again.
At 1:57 he was in full-blown panic mode, his knocks increasing in frequency and volume, visions of her lying comatose on the floor filling his head. He put his ear to the door, listening, and could swear that he heard her crying out, needing help. What if there was someone else there? An abductor or burglar. Visions of her gagged and tied or held at knifepoint arrested him. The knob beckoned, seeming to pulse at him like a neon sign. He stared at it, the world disappearing around him. He patted his body, finding his box cutters, the only thing remotely close to a weapon he had. He looked at the knob. It’s probably locked.
He reached forward, grasped the round metal tightly and twisted. The knob turned easily in his hand and the door opened, smoothly, leaving his hand and swinging inward. He gaped at the open door, caught by his action, not knowing what to do. Then he heard it—a definite moan of pain. He had not imagined it. He rushed forward, through the open doorway, and into her apartment, his box-cutters out and ready to defend her; ready to be her knight-in-shining armor. This could be my chance.
He entered the room with a burst of adrenaline, and stopped just inside the doorway, his eyes moving everywhere at once. This apartment was one giant open space, something he didn’t expect. His eyes flitted quickly over a galley kitchen, one lone recliner, and a bedroom area—sparse and ordinary—a dark purple comforter and pillows tossed messily over a mattress and box spring on the floor. Novels were stacked everywhere: around the bed and lining the walls of the room. He turned, looking to the left side of the apartment, and blinked, the strange sight foreign to his eyes.
Movement caught my eye. Movement never occurs in my apartment. I sat up, confused, and saw him, or rather the back of him. A strong body, tall. Great ass. Then he turned and our eyes met.
The UPS man was handsome. I noticed it right away, in the width of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms, the short black hair, tan skin, and strong features. Whatever warped vision of good looks I had seen in the peephole, this view was infinitely better. Handsome might be too tame of a word. Hot would be a better descriptor. He looked thirty, or somewhere in that range, and stood in a fighter’s stance, his legs slightly spread and hands clenched at his sides, face flushed and panicked, eyes flitting everywhere, before locking on me.
Brightness. His eyes squinted at the light, then adjusted, his mind trying to understand the scene before him. It was like entering another dimension—a Barbie World Boogie Nights mash up. The walls on this side were a pale shade of white, almost pink in tone, and covered with posters, framed photos, and a wall calendar—filled with notes, arrows, and hearts. The bed, a white four-poster queen, was covered in a pink bedspread, pink pillows, and ruffles. The bed matched a small bedside table, which held a hot pink lamp and notebook. It was like a teenage girl had been given free reign at Bed, Bath & Beyond and had gone wild with her mother’s credit card. The bedroom was illuminated in bright, blinding light coming from four giant stands, each holding professional-grade spotlights. Cords ran around the room, thin Ethernet ones, large power strip ropes, and silver-mesh strands that seemed to power and orchestrate the whole ensemble. There were computers, monitors, and cameras everywhere, all focused on the area, all portable and easily maneuvered. She was in the center of the bed, and everything else suddenly disappeared.
She knelt upright, her dark hair disheveled, her eyes locked with his. She was naked, her br**sts heaving, pink ni**les stiff, her pale skin flushed and glowing. Her brown eyes sharpened on his, and flashed with something he instantly recognized as anger. Oh shit. He tried not to stare at her skin, her br**sts, or the shaved mound between her thighs. He moved his mouth, tried to speak, but nothing came out. Then she stood.
I was instantly furious at the thought that he would come into my space; the invasiveness of it all was incredible. But I was also electrified, power ripping through every vein, muscle and pore of my body. I stood; my bare feet planted on the bed, my senses on high alert, I stared with hunger at my prey. It was like God had delivered him, on a silver platter, and the proof of it all was loosely grasped in his hand. Box Cutters. My pu**y clenched, instantly aching, a drop of my liquid collecting and running down my inner thigh, proof of my excitement. This was my time.
Wait.
I hear that in my head. Yeah. I know. Wait. I only hope it is God telling me to wait and not my mother. Or Satan. Or both. I wonder if my mother was always crazy, or if it came to her, out of nowhere, like it did to me years ago.
CHAPTER 24: April 12th
A perfect storm of events happened on April 12th. I was online with RicktheCPA, who enjoys jacking off to me while at work. Rick is strictly a typer, which I appreciated after the one day he was home sick, and I listened to him through his webcam. He has one of those nerdy, nasally voices that hiccups a bit when he gets excited. It always makes it harder to fake arousal when I am listening to a voice like that.
On April 12th I knelt on the bed, ass in the air, head on the pillow, face turned to the webcam and monitor, so I could read his comments. With my good ear buried in the pillow, and loud moans escaping my mouth, I was both distracted, and practically deaf. Thirty feet away, at my front door, Jeremy knocked. It, and the subsequent knocks, went unheard and ignored.
There was no answer when Jeremy knocked at 1:55 p.m. It was the first time this had ever happened. He waited patiently, a small box from BathJoyX in his hands. She must be in the bathroom. A minute passed, and he shifted impatiently before he knocked again.
At 1:57 he was in full-blown panic mode, his knocks increasing in frequency and volume, visions of her lying comatose on the floor filling his head. He put his ear to the door, listening, and could swear that he heard her crying out, needing help. What if there was someone else there? An abductor or burglar. Visions of her gagged and tied or held at knifepoint arrested him. The knob beckoned, seeming to pulse at him like a neon sign. He stared at it, the world disappearing around him. He patted his body, finding his box cutters, the only thing remotely close to a weapon he had. He looked at the knob. It’s probably locked.
He reached forward, grasped the round metal tightly and twisted. The knob turned easily in his hand and the door opened, smoothly, leaving his hand and swinging inward. He gaped at the open door, caught by his action, not knowing what to do. Then he heard it—a definite moan of pain. He had not imagined it. He rushed forward, through the open doorway, and into her apartment, his box-cutters out and ready to defend her; ready to be her knight-in-shining armor. This could be my chance.
He entered the room with a burst of adrenaline, and stopped just inside the doorway, his eyes moving everywhere at once. This apartment was one giant open space, something he didn’t expect. His eyes flitted quickly over a galley kitchen, one lone recliner, and a bedroom area—sparse and ordinary—a dark purple comforter and pillows tossed messily over a mattress and box spring on the floor. Novels were stacked everywhere: around the bed and lining the walls of the room. He turned, looking to the left side of the apartment, and blinked, the strange sight foreign to his eyes.
Movement caught my eye. Movement never occurs in my apartment. I sat up, confused, and saw him, or rather the back of him. A strong body, tall. Great ass. Then he turned and our eyes met.
The UPS man was handsome. I noticed it right away, in the width of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms, the short black hair, tan skin, and strong features. Whatever warped vision of good looks I had seen in the peephole, this view was infinitely better. Handsome might be too tame of a word. Hot would be a better descriptor. He looked thirty, or somewhere in that range, and stood in a fighter’s stance, his legs slightly spread and hands clenched at his sides, face flushed and panicked, eyes flitting everywhere, before locking on me.
Brightness. His eyes squinted at the light, then adjusted, his mind trying to understand the scene before him. It was like entering another dimension—a Barbie World Boogie Nights mash up. The walls on this side were a pale shade of white, almost pink in tone, and covered with posters, framed photos, and a wall calendar—filled with notes, arrows, and hearts. The bed, a white four-poster queen, was covered in a pink bedspread, pink pillows, and ruffles. The bed matched a small bedside table, which held a hot pink lamp and notebook. It was like a teenage girl had been given free reign at Bed, Bath & Beyond and had gone wild with her mother’s credit card. The bedroom was illuminated in bright, blinding light coming from four giant stands, each holding professional-grade spotlights. Cords ran around the room, thin Ethernet ones, large power strip ropes, and silver-mesh strands that seemed to power and orchestrate the whole ensemble. There were computers, monitors, and cameras everywhere, all focused on the area, all portable and easily maneuvered. She was in the center of the bed, and everything else suddenly disappeared.
She knelt upright, her dark hair disheveled, her eyes locked with his. She was naked, her br**sts heaving, pink ni**les stiff, her pale skin flushed and glowing. Her brown eyes sharpened on his, and flashed with something he instantly recognized as anger. Oh shit. He tried not to stare at her skin, her br**sts, or the shaved mound between her thighs. He moved his mouth, tried to speak, but nothing came out. Then she stood.
I was instantly furious at the thought that he would come into my space; the invasiveness of it all was incredible. But I was also electrified, power ripping through every vein, muscle and pore of my body. I stood; my bare feet planted on the bed, my senses on high alert, I stared with hunger at my prey. It was like God had delivered him, on a silver platter, and the proof of it all was loosely grasped in his hand. Box Cutters. My pu**y clenched, instantly aching, a drop of my liquid collecting and running down my inner thigh, proof of my excitement. This was my time.
