Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.
*****
(12 Hours Later - Apartment interior lit by afternoon light)
LUCAS
Bitch knows how to cook. Lowering my fork back into the Tupperware container, I jab it forward, forcing a carrot and a beef chunk against the plastic sidewall. I swipe them to my mouth.
Chewing, my bent elbow propped over the open door of Annabel's refrigerator, I look around me. Leafy vines droop down from perfectly aligned flower pots on a shelf above the kitchen sink. Ivory taffeta curtains, the same shade as her skin, line the single living room window, surreptitiously taking notice away from the cracked sills below them. Narrow doorframes, a product of her apartment's older construction, lead to her bedroom. I've learned to turn sideways to fit through them. The bedroom is a tribute to understated femininity, with its iron bedposts and antique wooden desk.
"Delicate" is the first word that her living space brings to mind.
I snort and spear a potato with my fork. A pussy word.
"Weak" is a better description for the haven that she thinks she's built around herself. All the wingback chairs and matching ottomans in the world won't save her from the grisly fucking hell her life is about to become.
Courtesy of me.
My cock twitches a little bit at that thought, the knowledge that her misery will be crafted at my hands. Fair is fair, I judge.
The necessity of her suffering is inescapable. Years before I knew her name, or the curves of her body, or the plumpness of her lips, I knew that someone had to pay for the misfortunes of my family.
Her father is dead. Her mother holds no value. She is the singular option. And in the two decades it's taken me to find her, she's racked up a fuck-ton of interest.
Payment will be exclusively on my terms. Last night was just the beginning. I haven't stopped thinking of her since.
How lucky for me that the only one capable of paying up is a pale-skinned goddess, whose pouty lips and heavy breasts make my cock thicken every time I think of her. That's quite the feat; he's never been easy to impress.
I can't count the number of times I've run into a woman who swears I gave her the night of her life, and all I can do is say, "Shame you didn't return the favor."
The truth hurts.
Annabel, though, I can't forget. And tonight she will finally learn just how unforgettable I am as well.
Sticking to my plan for her has not been easy. Taking control of her space when she's not home has been one way that I control my urge to collect what's due. I move things. I eat her food. I get high off of her scent.
Is it uncivilized? Yes. But it reigns in my urges. This undertaking has been too long in the making for me to ruin it by acting on impulses. Instead, I watch and I wait.
Waiting for things, decidedly, is not my strong suit. But I am the Michael-fucking-Angelo of destroying things. She will be my greatest work of art.
