Like all good fantasies, it starts with a girl. I see her out and about every now and then, but I don't know her name. That's the story of the suburbs, even the busy ones. No one knows anyone. And that's just perfect, because it also means no one notices.
She hits all of my buttons-- smooth pale skin that has seen more hours of moisturizer than work in her life. Long brown hair, straight, shiny, flowing, well kept. Petite-- barely a sneeze over five feet, and sleek. A dancer's build. Fit but not starved. Breasts that are firm, round, but not stupidly uselessly big. A perfect handful. And oh how I can imagine how they feel. The low cuts she wears-- just enough to accentuate the curves of her cleavage, but not enough to look like a desperate slut.
That's all her clothing. Perfectly matched. Perfectly colored. Beautifully chosen. And yet just short enough, just tight enough, just low cut enough--- all to look devastatingly beautiful because she doesn't intend it. She rides that smooth borderline of looking like either a street walker or a fashion model. An innocent, or an undiscovered? I must know what those clothes hide. I must know how she feels, before anyone else has her.
She was put on this planet to be the perfect outlet for my desire.
Do you know how easy it is to follow someone, to learn their schedule, their every move? Be in a parking lot amongst a thousand other anonymous cars? To walk down a street, staring at her, while all that anyone sees is someone checking his cell phone? To walk past her apartment and look up and keep track of when the lights are on and off? How much information is just right there in plain sight for anyone looking? I know her name-- thought it is a guttural, common name that isn't as beautiful as she, so I refuse to use it. I know her classes. I know the long stretches of time when she won't be missed.
Passion doesn't mean haste. I've spent months planning this, and I've been careful. I know where the security cameras are in all our common places, and I'm not on them. I haven't asked anyone about her. We have absolutely nothing in common. And that's why it's perfect. The sheer randomness, the absolute disconnect-- there is literally nothing to connect us. She may have chosen me with her beauty, but I am the architect of our destiny. I've lived a good life. I have no prints or DNA on file, no wanted posters in my name. I'm not part of the system at all.
And tonight we meet for the first and last time.
She's on the top floor of a duplex. The bottom floor where the owners live is empty. Away on vacation. She's studying for midterms. At the coffee shop, she already told her ugly friends she would be "offline" for the weekend. She went grocery shopping and bought plenty. No one is coming to see her. No one is expecting to hear from her.
While she was at class, I went to her place. I wore a hardhat and an orange reflective vest. I'm highly visible but not one can see me. I screwed her windows shut from the outside. The front door is the only other way in or out of her place. I let myself in using the key she hid under the floorboard. I install a trap-lock on the door. Next time it is open and shut, it will lock from the inside. Once she comes home, she is mine. There is no escape. She doesn't have a landline. My first priority will be getting her cell.
A small apartment. A student's apartment. A bowl and charger by the front door. If she drops the cell in the bowl, then I've won. Otherwise, I'll have to wait for my opportunity. There's a common room, a kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom. I can hide in any and see all the others. The bathroom will be best-- closest to the front door, most hidden. If she puts down her cell, I strike. Otherwise I lie in wait for when she is most vulnerable.
I spend the next hour sorting through her clothes, in case she is wearing the wrong thing. The black mini skirt. The purple top with the v-neck. All so soft, so smooth, so tight. I pocket a pair of her pantyhose. Then there's footsteps coming up the stairs. I slip into the bathroom, into the shower. I can see well enough through the shower curtain without drawing it.
A key in the lock and my heart skips. It's finally time to meet my beautiful one.
She comes in, looking perfect as always. Except her hair is up in a bun, rather than flowing down past her back like it should. No! Why does she do that. Doesn't she know she looks so much better with her hair down. Stupid. She's being so stupid! I'll have to fix that.
But priorities.
She closes the door, and there's a subtle second click as the trap lock above the door clicks into place. My heart skips again, did she hear it? I heard it. If she sees it and opens it and runs, it's all over. No, she didn't hear it. Good.
I'm already hard. I take a deep breath-- save it for her. Calm down. Soon.
She tosses her keys in the bowl, but her cell phone is still in her hand. I had already unplugged her wifi, but I saw her cell phone bill. She has 3G, and will still have Internet. Why was she wasting so much money on useless luxuries like that? She's so stupid sometimes. The phone, I have to get the phone.
I am distracted, and I know it. She yawns and stretches-- yes, it was a long day, last day before midterms, wasn't it?-- arms over her head, arching her back. Her pink top rides up her midriff, exposing her cute belly. Flat. Perfect. I can't wait to kiss it. Maybe I'll cum on it, watch it all pool on that flat, perfect surface. There's so much to do to her.
Wait, what's she doing? She still has her phone in hand, checking her messages. And she's going over the the window. Why is she doing that? That isn't her routine. I've seen her through the window, she comes in, goes to the kitchen first. Not to the window. She's doing this wrong! Why is she not obeying? Maybe she just wants to close the curtains but-- oh shit, no. She's reaching for the window.
I take hold of the shower curtains, unsure of what to do. She's doing this on purpose! Heat is rising up the back of my neck, and I poise to strike. If she tries to open the window, discovers them screwed shut-- I'm found out! She's smart. She'll deduce something's wrong. Run or make noise before I can stop her.
She pulls on the window-- and it's jammed, won't move. She-- oh thank goodness, she puts down her cell on the window sill and grips the window with two hands.
This is my only chance. If I don't move now, she'll put together that she's trapped, call for help. I step out of the shower, move slowly towards her. In a panic, I forget that I mapped out the creaky floorboards during my wait-- and I step on the wrong one. It creaks and she spins around.
For just a moment, the entire world is still. Our eyes lock-- her perfect, brown eyes framed in a face that is cute and sexy and beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. Little round nose. Sharp cheekbones. Tiny chin. She doesn't see through the cloth mask I'm wearing. Even if she did, she wouldn't know me from any of the other thousands of strangers on the street. No one knows me. No one loves me. It's why I can do this. It's why I have to do this!
We both move at once. I am by no means a massive hulk. That's up to the jocks and their waste of space on this planet. But I easily outweigh her-- and I spent enough of my life learning to defend myself from assholes. I know how to fight. I charge straight at her-- no need to get fancy. Get her away from the phone, away from the window. Overpower and subdue. Focus.
