And I know when something’s wrong, Kara told herself. I always have. As traffic thinned and they picked up speed, she looked out into the dark countryside, rain sliding past the window, and tried to tell herself she was wrong, that it was just the cumulative discouragement of the entire day that was getting to her. And it wasn’t just the apartment hunting, either. It was the prospect of having to turn into an urban corporate wife, spending more and more time with people like the Bennetts, who had managed to make even a dinner at Café des Artistes a miserable experience. Maybe she was just tired, and upset with everything that was going on in their lives, and there was nothing wrong at all.
She closed her eyes and tried to quiet her mind.
But it didn’t work.
Something was wrong.
Something was terribly wrong.
Suddenly all she wanted was to be home.
Home with Lindsay.
Chapter Seventeen
I must write down every detail of what happened, lest I forget even the tiniest fragment of this perfect day.
My planning was flawless, of course. The spot I’d found for the car was as secluded as I’d remembered, and as deserted as the rest of the area. People are so predictable.
When I entered the house, it was also exactly as I had anticipated. People were wandering through every room, thinking they were seeing everything, but in actuality seeing nothing. When I first entered, I saw the agent in charge standing on the stairs, talking to two people who were of absolutely no interest to me — too young to have children yet not old enough for any other role. The agent looked right at me, but I knew even as his eyes scanned me that he was dismissing me.
As they always dismissed me.
If he held any memory of me at all from that disinterested glance, it has long since faded utterly away.
Perfect.
I drifted invisibly through the house, awaiting my opportunity, and when I finally came to her room, it was empty. It was less than a second before I had slipped under the bed.
Under the bed!
It is such a cliché that I knew the moment I saw the huge old-fashioned mahogany four-poster on Wednesday, it would make the perfect hiding place.
The trick, I had been afraid, would be to stay awake as I lay waiting for her, but as I smelled her delicate fragrance, I could almost feel her all around me, and it was enough.
I knew I would not sleep.
And it was marvelous, hiding under her bed. Marvelous to lie hidden only inches away as people wandered through the room. I watched their feet and listened to them talk about the house and the family who lived there. I was particularly thrilled when someone mentioned her — talked about how well she kept her room, how pretty she was in her photographs. It was exactly as people described the others, thinking they were perfect when I knew what they really were.
I found one of her bedroom slippers. Pink, it was, and well-worn. I held it to my cheek, feeling the softness of its silk, and filled myself with the scent of her feet.
And as I pictured her perfectly formed foot nestling into that glove-soft slipper, I crushed the slipper in anticipation of crushing the foot itself, just as I crushed her panties on Wednesday last.
And heat poured through me.
As the hours passed, I fantasized that she was sleeping in the bed above me, mere inches away, with no idea how close I was.
And then at last the house fell silent, and I was alone.
Alone with my passion and my fantasy, and the knowledge that soon the fantasy would become reality.
I’m not sure how long it was before I finally heard the front door close, but the moment it did, my heart began to pound so hard that I found it hard to breathe.
She turned on the television.
I don’t like that.
I felt my groin begin to ache as I heard her slowly come up the stairs, and as I watched her feet as she padded into the bedroom, opened a drawer, and sighed, I felt myself begin to harden…
A moment later she sat on the bed, and the mattress sagged and touched my chest. It was incredible — I could almost imagine it was her fingers themselves touching me. Then a shoe dropped, and then the other, falling to the floor with a carelessness that I like no more than the sound of the television. Once her shoes were off, she stood up, turned on her music and danced a few steps, her naked feet only inches from my face.
I could have reached out and taken her then.
Next her blouse dropped to the floor right before my eyes, and then her shorts as well!
It was as if she knew I was there, and doing what she’s always done.
There she was, only inches away, and clad in nothing more than her bra and panties.
Thin, light green bikini panties, I imagined. Or perhaps the ones with butterflies on them that I’d seen in her drawer on Wednesday.
As I watched, she slid one of her feet into a slipper and put the other foot under the bed, feeling for the second slipper. I wanted to touch her foot so badly I could barely rein in the urge, but I held fast!
Patience! That is the key to everything.
A moment later her hand came snaking under the bed, and for an instant it seemed she was reaching out for me.
I shrank away, of course. The moment of capture was not yet at hand, and I was about to nudge the slipper closer to her grasp when the telephone rang.
In an instant her hand vanished and the mattress sagged above me once more.
As she talked with her friend, I felt the moment draw closer and knew I wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
Though the torture had been sublime, it was time to take her home.
I began to slip out from beneath the bed, and knew the exact moment when she became aware of my presence.
It was a moment we shared together — the first of what I know will be a lifetime of such moments.
Before she could even speak, I seized her, my fingers closing on her ankles. If she screamed, I have no memory of it.
Perhaps she didn’t scream at all.
Or perhaps the music drowned out her scream.
Certainly, any scream she might have made would have been like music to my ears.
Would have been, and will be for a very long time to come…
I held her tightly, covering her body with my own.
Then I covered her lips with mine, and this is when I nearly lost control in the feel of her skin against my body, in the smell of her that filled my nose.
And in the terror I saw in her eyes.
I wanted to lie atop her for hours, feeling her submitting to my power, but the glue on my fingertips — the glue that saved me from leaving my fingerprints anywhere in this house — now prevented me from touching her cheek or her lips or her eyes the way I wished.
Once again I drew upon my patience; there would be time for all of that later. But first there were chores to be done.
Chores must always be done before pleasures are to be taken.
Just after the sun set, I took her home. Everything about that brief trip was entrancing — not just the fear I felt from her, but everything else as well.
Her ineffectual struggle against the bindings on her hands and feet — a silent struggle, given the gag in her mouth. But the struggles won’t last long. Certainly no longer than my own.
Soon.
Soon she’ll submit to me, just as I submitted to her.
As she struggled and trembled, I wrapped her snugly in a blanket from her bed and kissed her forehead.
Then I carried her home so that we may begin.
All will be once more as it was the last time we were together.
But it will be different, too. Oh yes! This time it will be different.
This time I’ll be saved.