I like to be left alone to my own devices which, more often than not, happens to be at work in the stoic silence working on salvaging what’s left of the dead. Preparing them for pick-up by the first vulture that was able to secure an exorbitant amount of money from a grieving family.
That’s not always where my job ends, though. I mourn the dead even when they have families, because in a way, they’re mine for the time I have them.
I get to my feet and open my medicine cabinet, pulling out the pack of cigarettes I keep inside before walking over to my small bathroom window and opening it as high as it will go. Lighting my smoke, I inhale deeply, then let a billow of cancerous fumes leave from the parting of my lips, and I wonder.
It feels different looking out into the night with no one looking back, and I feel more at ease. I can be in my home, no matter how hidden I have to be, and feel like I’m alone again.
The way that I choose to be.
I flick the ashes from the end of my cigarette and watch them billow in the wind as they spiral to the pavement below, then sigh.
While I do love being alone, I love the chase even more.
I like to show the animal in me because it’s how I’ve been constructed to look. By the universe, by my parent’s rampant drug abuse—who the fuck knows?
The only thing that matters now is the game, and I’ve just decided that I want to engage my stranger.
I want to know him the same way he wants to know me and I want him to see the real me before this is over.
I want to know if he’s worth my time, and if he’s not …
Well, there are other ways to reimburse me for the time I intend to spend wallowing in the conundrum of the shadow that haunts my every step.
Chapter 1
The way her hands dance across the ivory keys has my blood running hot. I can feel it rushing quickly to the center of my body, flooding the veins of my cock. They’re so full, protruding from beneath my skin. I place my ankle on my knee and put the sweatshirt that I brought along on my lap. It covers my hand as I stroke myself through my pants. I don’t go crazy, working my hand too fast for anyone to notice. Luckily the piece she’s playing, the one she has been practicing and perfecting for weeks, is at a slow part. I only move my hand as fast as the beat allows.
I think back to the lessons I had as a child. The way my piano teacher would place her hands on top of mine and we would play together. Even back then, the melody would take me away; far away from the chaos that surrounded me in our house. I grew up in a rich family. My dad worked in finance. He would come home from the club, drunk, after a long day at work and beat on my mother. He would beat me and my little sister, too. It hurt so bad and my mom didn’t do much to stop it. But when my piano teacher came over, her hands were tender as she helped my fingers learn each of the keys. Every note I played made me feel good inside; too good apparently. My teacher quit when I was fifteen and started popping boners during my lessons. Ever since then, I’ve been drawn to the blissful sound of a piano.
There is a reason I chose to sit in the darkest corner of the theater. The venue is crowded, but far from full. The furthest seat on the left in the back row provides me with the cover that I need. I look at the few people sitting in one of the rows in front of me. They’re rapt with attention just as much as I am. They don’t even know I’m here, just the way I like it. As the melody picks up under her slender but nimble fingers, my hand works at the zipper of my jeans. I slip it i
nside and grip my cock tightly. I pump my fist to the rhythm of the notes as they float into my ear.
She’s nearing the last bridge of the song as my balls begin to tighten. I grip them hard and rub them in my palm. I can hear the pitch of the music rise as the crescendo begins; the melody increasing, note-by-note. The louder the song gets, the harder I squeeze myself. I look around, just to make sure I am still unnoticed, and I place my other hand underneath the sweatshirt. My breathing increases as one hand grips my cock and the other rolls my balls around in my palm. The rhythm of the song increases as it gets louder. As the crescendo peaks, just before the rhythm starts to slow again, I take a final glance at her dancing fingers. Lights burst in my vision as I am overcome with pleasure, my cum spilling out of me. The spurts slow just as the melody does, until finally, there is nothing left inside of me.
She reaches the last note of the song and suddenly everyone is on their feet. In seconds, the sound of her angelic melody is replaced with applause ricocheting off of the fabric walls of the theater. I remove my hands from inside of my pants and I can feel my cum already cooling on the fabric of the sweatshirt. I fold it in half, so the cum is trapped inside. I smush the fabric together and sling it over my shoulder before zipping myself back up.
As people begin to file through the doors into the lobby, I place the device I used to record her performance tonight into my messenger bag. Standing, I throw the messenger bag over my head and let it fall across my chest. I walk to the front of the theater and, taking one final look behind me, I turn toward the ramp leading up into the backstage area. As I walk, I take the small container of chloroform and the washcloth out of my bag. I know exactly where to go, because I’ve walked these halls before. She isn’t the first person that has caught my attention; there have been others. But none near as fine and talented as her.
I think I will end up missing her the most.
I sit in the corner of the abandoned warehouse that I like to work in. I found this place a few years ago, right after I made my first kill. I’ll never forget him. He was younger than me by a few years. He worked in the diner that I still frequent. Ever since taking him, I find myself going back there after each kill. It’s a tradition I’ve become dependent on, as if the kill isn’t complete until I’ve sipped my last drop of midnight coffee.
She is just starting to stir. Soon enough she will open her groggy eyes and see she is tied to the weakening planks of wood that I affixed to some of the piping in the middle of the room. They’re slightly off-balance; I want my guests a little on edge. They’re not meant to feel like they’re on solid ground. She won’t be able to see me; not yet anyway. I like to watch them squirm for a while. The way they move their hands, trying to get free. The push and pull, twisting and turning, clenching their fingers into fists. Those fists showing off both fury and determination that is begging me to stamp it out. But I won’t, not right away. I am getting hard just thinking about it.
She lifts her head off of the wood slightly and takes in the part of the warehouse she can see.
“What?” she questions softly.
She looks to her left, then to her right before her head thumps back down onto the wood beneath it. I can hear her breath hitch and my cock twitches; the fear is setting in. I run my fingers lightly up and down my cock through the fabric on my jeans, just as I did earlier this evening. Her arms are stretched and secured above her head, hanging just over the edge of the board. The piping they’re on is perfect at around three feet off the ground. My guests are at just the right height for me to cradle my cock gently in their hands when the time comes.
I lean over and press play on the recording device. I can think of nothing more than to feel her, to taste her, as her angelic melody floats through the air around us. It’s not the best quality, but nothing would be as good as the live performance anyway. I stand, silently, from my seat and unbutton my jeans.
“Who—who’s there?” she asks.
When she hears my footsteps coming closer to her, she starts working at her binds. She pulls the sides of her hands together, trying to fold them in on themselves so they’re skinny enough to slip through the rope. As she does this her fingers elongate, enticing me further.
I have to will myself not to pull my cock out right then and finish both her and myself off too quickly. I haven’t spent months following her, getting sucked into the grace in which she executes her craft, to end our secret tryst so quickly.