it looks like you live in the attic of some old farmer's house. The pink bed sheets were all they had at the time for you, but you were fine with this. The dust on the mirror doesn't bother you, your low self esteem keeps you from looking in the mirror often. You don't drive, it's a waste. The 50s model bicycle in the barn is more than efficient mode of transportation into the small town a mile or so from the farm.
You keep to yourself here. The townspeople are aware of you, but rarely converse. This is where you pick your victims. Young women, the average looking, otherwise unnoticed. You find them, and follow them for days on end. Every day you see her, having a coffee at the small cafe across the street from the book store at which she works. On occasion you venture into the bookstore, for no other reason than to cop glances at her from behind the bookshelves. Once, you bought a book. A novel you'd never read, or show any interest in. A cheap, paperback.your eyes met hers, as she scanned the barcode, noticing your uncomfortable glare, giving a half-disturbed, anxious nod and smile as you left, hoping you'd not return. God, doesn't she tease you? You just want to show her you care. You shower her with effection, letting her know she mean something to you. No one else will love her, only you. As she lay, tied up on your bed, sobbing into her pillow, mouth gagged, a knock at your door: The elderly farmer, bringing you up the evening meal. You give her a forboding glance before cracking the door open just far enough to slide the plate of thinly-sliced roasted ham and mashed potatoes inside, giving the farmer a quiet 'thank you' as you shut the door. The young woman who'd caught your affection so intently, sobs as loudly as she can behind you, but the gag forced halfway down her throat constricts her cries to nothing more than the whimper of a mouse.
To be continued.
you take a moment to realise what you've done. Who was she, really? Who would miss her? How long until her family would become aware of her absense? It made no difference. You bring your hand to her soft, dirty blond hair, kneeling near her at bedside. Her shoulder-length locks smell sweet, her eyes, grasping at yours pleadingly, hatefully. You caress her cheek softly, wiping away a tear, your hand trembling. The urge is magnificent. You dig your fingernail into her cheek as she winces and sobs pathetically. Your heart leaps to your chest, your breathing so intense, your lungs feel external. You bring the old, rusty sheers from the dresser drawer to her hair, gripping it gently. Her eyes widen. You feel her inaudible screem. Soundless, yet, loud, burning through your ears. Her cold sweat drenches where she lay. "snip"
a quick movement, and a handfull of her beautiful mane becomes yours. You have her now. You've taken part of her. You caress it softly in your palm, speaking nothing. This has become your keepsake. The trophy of your lover. A true object of affection. Her eyes tearing violently, you caress her again, softer this time, before moving to gently lay out her golden bangs on the dusty dresser, brushing the misplaced chemicals and hair dyes you'd bought at the salon in midtown- your first victim:
It had taken longer with her. She was different. She was more quiet, seemed to have fewer people in the world she associated with, save for her few regular customers. You'd go in once a week to purchase a random beauty product, the effect of which you couldn't begin to understand. They now littered the dresser in front of your mirror. You loved her intently. She was yours first. But she betrayed you, she didn't love you as much as you loved her. Not like this one, not like the blonde book-store clerk. You could tell, the two of you had something special.
Her body quivered as you touched it, a single trail of blood massaged her cheek, from where your dirty fingernail had penetrated her soft flesh. Her body is yours, you know this. She's giving it to you. She begs you to have it. You can read this in her beautiful azule eyes. Your hand motions to her nose smoothly, squeezing it tight, depriving her of oxygen, the gag in her mouth thrusting as she ached to thrust it out to no avail.
To be continued.
tbc.her body tempts you..no, she's in love with you. There is no temptation. As she gasps for breath, you release her nose. God how cute she is, sucking in breath through her now dripping nose, begging for release. Your mind wanders with thoughts of her as you hover above her, watching her gasping for breath. You wonder if her mind is set on marriage. You wonder how many men she's had before you. You wonder if her body was anyone else's fairground before your own. Your mind clouds with disgusting thoughts. She's had another man before you. Another man she loved, even two. Two other men she gave herself two. Those two men, at the same time. Or three. Or more. She'd had so many before you. She's a whore. How could she lie to you? You see her for what she is, now. The filth. Her body, tainted with the seed of others. How could she lie to you? How could sheforce herself upon you this way, and you come to find her body has been used. She was one of the girls in highschool, the ones that never paid attention to you. The ones that teased you, the ones that tricked you, embarassed you. She was a conniving whore. Filth among humans. How dare she present herself to you as though she were pure.
Your anger builds dramatically. Her body convulses for air, and your heart fills with hatred. You lean down quickly, a solid motion, bringing the ball of your hand against her face with a devoit sneer. "how could you!" you scream at the top of your lungs in pure rage. The first thing you've said to her, since making her your own. Your face drops dramatically as you realise your tone, your attention turning to the thin-wood door to your loft. Footsteps rushing up the stairs, no doubt the elderly man coming to inspect the commotion. As the footsteps cease, and steady, worried raps at the door commence, your eyes dart in either direction.. "hello? Hello?! Is everything alright in there?" the gentleman questions worridly. His voice is frail, brittle. An elderly man, pressing his mid sixties. His voice trembling, but not entirely out of concern, his age contributes greatly to this. You can't help but fidgit nervously as you bring your hand to the doorknob, pulling it open slightly. "yes? Everything is...fine." you quietly assure him, making sure the door is cracked only slightly "i..heard y'h yell in there...wha's goin' on? Everything square?" he asks you curiously, trying to pry his head inside. You react quickly as you can, he's nearly forcing the door open, it's a panic. You reach behind the door for the dusty fire-place poker in the corner, grip it loosely, nearly dropping it, before thrusting open the door. The fire-poker's spikey end connects violently with the elderly man's forehead once, twice, again. His limp body falls backwards, the steel rod plummeting from his face onto the floor before the doorway.
Your breath heavy, you adjust your shirt collar, closing your eyes to regain composure. This is difficult. Somehow, the whore you'd rescued from her prostitutional ways manages to make her screams audible at the sight. Deep screams emit from the lowest corners of her throat, her now bloodshot, red eyes watering uncontrolably. You turn back to her, leaving the door behind you open. No need to close it anymore.
You have your privacy, now.
To be continued.