I picture her laying on the ground, tightly bound, arms behind her back and breasts thrust forward. Her knees were pulled back, her bare pussy exposed. I could have shoved my cock in her. That’s what Alastor expected me to do.
If I had smelled this scent, I would have done it.
I’ve never experienced anything like it. It’s addicting. The longer I spend in this room with her sheets, her half-empty perfume bottle, her dirty laundry, the more it fills my lungs, surging through my blood.
I want it. Fresh from the source.
I’m jerking my cock harder, taking deep breaths.
I imagine her tied down, this time on her back with her legs pulled apart. I imagine burying my face in her cunt, thrusting my tongue all the way inside her while she thrashes against the ropes.
My balls are boiling, my cock throbbing with every heartbeat.
I wrap the panties around the head of my cock and I thrust into them, right against the crotch. My cock erupts, pouring cum into Mara’s underwear.
I use her panties to catch every last drop, squeezing them around the head.
That skimpy black fabric feels better around my cock than any actual pussy I’ve ever fucked. Maybe it’s the novelty, or maybe it’s the way her scent still clings to my fingers, lingering in my lungs.
It’s not enough. The orgasm was rapid, powerful as a rifle shot. I’m not satisfied.
I want to watch Mara in this space. I want to see how she walks around her room, how she undresses, how she behaves when she thinks she’s alone.
I look out her window.
The adjoining row houses offer no line of sight into Mara’s room. But the house behind hers—the tall Georgian with the black shutters—offers a perfect view from its own attic space.
Mara has no curtains on her windows. She’s so high up, she feels as safe as a crow in its nest.
Crows forget about hawks.
I drop the panties back on the floor where I found them.
Then I leave the way I came, already planning to call my estate agent.
8
Mara
By the time I get home from walking the dogs, I’m late for a date with Josh.
We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a couple of months. He’s a photographer who likes to take pictures of repurposed buildings. Really, he makes most of his money shooting weddings.
He’s good-looking, decent at sex, and better at conversation, though he has a tendency to get preachy. He’s judgmental as fuck about me bartending at Zam Zam because he says half the regulars are alcoholics and I’m fueling their addiction. Never mind that I met him at Zam Zam, and he’s hardly a teetotaler.
Much like Erin, Josh didn’t notice when I disappeared for four days. We only meet up once every week or two, both of us busy with work and side projects.
I haven’t fucked him since the incident. I haven’t fucked anybody since then, and I’m not sure how I’ll react when I do.
Even though that maniac didn’t rape me, I feel just as violated. There’s no way to compare trauma, and I don’t want to try. But the terror I felt, and the physical pain, can’t be that far off.
Sometimes I just want to forget the whole thing.
Other moments I’m filled with a deep, roiling rage. I want to find that motherfucker. I want to hunt him down. And I want to cut off little pieces of him until I start to feel better.
That isn’t going to happen, though. It’s pretty fucking clear the cops aren’t doing shit because they don’t believe what I told them. Even if they did, there’s no witnesses and no evidence. I’m not even a good witness.
Besides . . . I don’t believe in revenge.
This isn’t the first time in my life someone hurt me. Holding onto the anger, stewing in the rage, will only boil me alive from the inside. I learned that the hard way.
What could I do, anyway? I’m 5’5, 112 lbs. I’ve never punched anyone in my life. Even with a taser gun and a pile of duct tape, I’d have a hard time subduing a fully grown male. I have no illusions about my ability to fight, to hurt, to kill.
It’s hard to let go, but that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to tell myself that I’m alive, I’m healing. As long as I’m still breathing, I can keep moving forward. Everything can be overcome except death.
Even if I could find that asshole, all I’d do is get myself killed.
I hurry into the house, knowing Josh will be annoyed if I’m late again.
Joanna passes me on the stairs, likewise hurrying to a date with her long-term boyfriend Paul, as I jog up the three flights to my attic room.
“You look gorgeous!” I tell her.