You are so hot. I don’t go to the restaurant for food. I go there for you. Watching you seat people in that tight, white shirt and black pants makes me sweat. You’re only eighteen, but I’ve got to have you.
For the past week, I’ve watched you. I learned your schedule and where you park. Now I’m ready.
I drive the four blocks from my condo to the strip mall where your restaurant is. I wait in the parking lot until the spot next to your car, the one between your car and the restaurant, is vacant. Then I pull in. Fifteen minutes until you’re off.
I get out and walk up to the store next to the restaurant. Slowly, I walk and glance in store windows along the strip. Ten more minutes. A couple more stores, then I turn around. Five minutes. I watch for you and feel the gun in my back pocket. When I get two stores away, I stop. And wait. And listen while I look in the window at the paint supplies.
Then I see you. You’re walking quickly toward your car. I follow behind you, pulling the gun out when we’re ten feet from my van. As you turn to walk between our vehicles, I put the gun in your back. You gasp.
“Don’t scream. Turn and look at me.”
You face me and look quickly at the gun now pressed against your stomach. I step closer to you.
“Get in the back of my van. Calmly.”
“No, please. Take my purse,” you plead.
“Get in.”
You open the sliding door and step up. I follow close behind you as you enter the emptiness behind the van’s two front seats. After closing the door, I tell you to lie on your stomach. I grab a cloth gag and handcuffs from the front seat. When I’m finished gagging you, I handcuff your arms behind you. Your little ass strains against the back of your pants as you struggle. I run my hands over the material, feeling your soft cheeks.
“Don’t move until I tell you.”
I can hear your muffled attempts to talk as I get in the driver’s seat. A minute later we’re pulling into my garage. When the garage door is down, I move to the back of the van and open the sliding door.
“Get out and walk around to the door into the condo.”
You awkwardly climb out of the van, tears rolling down your face. We walk to the door and I push it open, allowing you to walk up the two steps into my kitchen.
“Straight ahead. Down the hall.”
I follow you until we reach the door to my bedroom.
“In here.”
You turn into the bedroom and stop just inside the door, sobbing louder now. After closing and locking the door, I pull the key to the handcuffs out of my pocket and grab your arm. The cuffs are unlocked and I place them on the dresser.
“Sit on the edge of the bed and take off your shoes.”
When you’re done, I tell you to lay on your back on the bed. Your long blonde hair falls onto the pillow. It covers the side of your face before ending between your shirt collar and your breast. I brush it off your shoulder so I can see your neck.
I place my hand on your stomach and you flinch. I feel your heavy breathing as I move my hand upward over the material of your shirt. When I reach your breast, I slow down. I press harder to feel the softness of your body under my hand. Your bra feels thin and tight against your breast. I can feel your nipple.
My hand moves to the top button. I open it. Then another. The top of your other breast is visible now under the shirt. I reach over and run my fingers across the skin above your bra. Then I return to the buttons and open two more. Your shirt is opening wider, drawn apart by your breasts heaving as you breathe.