Invasion of Privacy

Chapter 8

You slowly cycle down the affluent residential street as if you’re one of them. No one gives you a second look. You pass within inches of a woman pushing a baby stroller. She is under an umbrella and is plugged into some white earphones. You catch the tinny sound of music. You look back as you pass. Naturally, you want to see if the swivel of her hips has returned following childbirth. You want to see if she’s back on the market, asking for it already, but the music — and the baby, if you’re really honest with yourself — puts you off. You ignore her. You choose not to take an interest.

Yes, you choose. You are the one who decides. You’re like a Roman Emperor selecting who lives and who dies. Thumbs up or thumbs down? Regardless, you’ve already chosen your next one. She’s been really begging for it. She might even be The One. You can’t wait. The anticipation is a pleasure. You can feel it forming between your legs. You try to push it away, back down through your black cycle-shorts but, as usual, it seems to have a life of its own. 

You spot a residential green on the corner opposite your destination. You dismount and sit on the bench under a tree. The tree gives a little shelter from the rain. You cross your legs and wait patiently for the hardness to subside. You try to take your mind off it. You look up and concentrate on the wind blowing through the branches. You focus on the dampness of the bench seeping through your Lycra shorts. You hear the slow tap tap tap of raindrops on your cycling helmet, larger for having first collected on the leaves and branches before falling.

You recall the last one. 

The cellist. 

It wasn’t as good as you’d expected. As you’d planned. She’d wanted it too much, the slut. You knew that now with hindsight. Someone like that could never make the grade.

Even in the middle of her ‘recital’ the tart was trying to tease you. 

The way she spread her legs either side of the cello – such a blatant come-on. And then her hand movements with the bow. She knew damn well they were suggestive. She wasn’t just playing the cello. She was trying to play you too, but her music was so fucking boring. She was into it though. She closed her eyes tight as she concentrated, her body swaying, arm sliding backwards and forwards. 

You didn’t waste the opportunity. You snuck up behind her and smashed her over the head just as she finished playing. You even laughed out loud as she fell to the floor, the crappy music silenced once and for all. 

It took ages for her to come back round. 

You’d already tied her hands together, dragged her up onto the table, sliced off her clothes and entered her. You weren’t far off coming when she regained consciousness. It hadn’t even been a minute. Nowhere near long enough. You tried to hold back, but you wanted her to scream. 

It was so much better when she screamed. 

She wailed loudly when you grabbed a clump of hair with one hand and yanked her head back. She shrieked even louder when she felt the sharp blade you held at her throat with your other hand. You felt it then, the tightening of her muscles around it. But that was too much. You couldn’t hold on anymore. You climaxed and scythed open her neck at the same time. 

A double release.

But you’d rushed it. You weren’t sure why. You could have prolonged it. Strung it out. Made it last like it should have.

Next time you wouldn’t knock her out cold. Or if you did, you’d wait until she came round before getting it on properly. There really was no need to hurry. After all, you’d planned it that way. The whole point was to enjoy it. Enjoy it slowly. For her to experience pleasure and pain intensified by the dawning realisation that she was at death’s door. Combined with the sex, it was overpowering. For her too, you briefly wonder? And then you chide yourself. Who cares?

Opposite from where you sit you can see the house numbered 85. The next slut lives there. It’s time to invite her to the best experience of her life. 

And her last.