But now Stella, for the first time in years stirs something inside me, something I thought I’d buried a long time ago, but seemingly not deep enough.Something dangerous. Something that’s making me question whether I’m still the man Mr Lewis trusts to follow orders without hesitation.
At that moment, Stella walks towards me and gazes out of the window, her eyes lost in the dark void that surrounds me. I’m inches from her, separated only by the fragile barrier of glass.
‘Oh, Stella,’ I whisper.My mind is made up.
She’s a killer. That much is certain.
It doesn’t matter. I have my sights on her, and there’s no turning back. She’s become my little plaything. And playthings don’t get to choose their fate.
I wonder how many men have moaned over the name Stella? I ask myself, as I watch her eyes cautiously gaze out into the night.
How many?
My heart pounds, and I’m not even sure why. Do I want to fuck her or kill her? There’s a pulse beneath my skin,andin my trousers – a rhythm that doesn’t belong to anything human. It’s raw, untamed, a wild fire that consumes the moment it sparks. It took me years to control it, a beast that refuses to be caged. It’s not something I can explain, not even to myself. It’s primal, feral – a hunger that doesn’t just simmer but roars to life.
Like an addict with trembling hands, I take that first sip, knowing full well it will undo me. And yet, I can’t stop myself.I don’t want to stop.It’s taken me years to master. Seconds to set free.
Too much for most. Too wild. Too...un-tethered.‘You’re a freak, Sal,’they’d say. I’ve seen it in their eyes – the fear, the hesitation, the way they step back as if they can sense a storm brewing beneath the surface. They were right to run. The memories bring a smile to my face – the person I once was –am.I smile at this dormant thing that’s been living inside me for years.
What harm could come of it? She’s going to die anyway. I might as well have a little fun. I’ve caged the darkness before, I can do it again.
My hand snakes into my trousers. It’s not like I haven’t masturbated for ten years, I simply didn’t let my darker urges accompany it, which would have led me down the rabbit hole I’d spent so many years escaping.
Turn away, Stella...you little slut.
Her pupils dilate.Turn away.
I wrap my hands around the base of my cock.
If you make me cum while I’m just inches away looking into your eyes, I’m going to destroy you.
She doesn’t move. Good! Stay there. Destroying you is what I should be doing.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. And this is torturous.
I close my eyes to regain control. She doesn’t know I’m here, outside her window, trousers ‘round my ankles whacking off. If she found out, I’d probably have one of her arrows shoved up where the sun doesn’t shine.
She’s lingering too long, her eyes lost in the dark abyss beyond the glass, and the space between us tinges with something electric. If she stays here much longer, I can’t say I’d be responsible for what happens next.
Then, as if she heard the unspoken urgency in my thoughts, she moves. Slowly, unhurried, she slips away from the window like the moment never happened. She crawls into her bed, pulling back the bed covers, and the bed swallows her whole. I watch, stroking my cock back and forth, watching her as her head lolls to the side. I tilt my head back, the stillness of the night taut and unbearable. The glass feels thinner, as if it might shatter under the weight of my thoughts alone. She’s oblivious, wrapped in a fragile cocoon of sleep, and yet every fibre of my being is alive, thrumming with a need to possess her. I bite my lip, the sharp sting grounding me as the beast stirs, relentless and hungry. And I know – know it borders on madness, but I can’t walk away.
She’s mine.She just doesn’t know it yet.
Cum spills into the palm of my hand as my eyes bore into her closed lids, and a low growl slips from my lips. That will take the edge off, for now. Rubbing the cum between my thumb and forefinger I smear it thick against the glass. Dragged by my fingertips in slow, deliberate strokes, it clings heavy and uneven. My message takes shape – it’s ugly, raw, yet undeniable.
I want her to know I’ve been here, and if rain should come, it won’t disappear completely, if at all. The faint impression will remain, ghostly remnants of my declaration. My fingers carve into the dirty window, letters emerging in reverse; a message for her alone:
I retreat slipping into the hush of the night, the cold grass clawing at my legs as I weave my way back to the car. Cum still clings to my fingers, drying, cracking, a tangible reminder of what I’d just done. I smile knowing that when she wakes – when she sees it, it’ll already be too late.
CHAPTER 5
THE CURATOR
The museum is unusually quiet for a Friday, even at this hour. For the last three years, stepping into the exhibition halls, and inhaling the scent of old plaster had become routine. My life had order. Here, the air is controlled, the temperature regulated, but that doesn’t mean the collection is safe. Not really. Fragile things break. Every morning I painstakingly inspect each cast searching for cracks, for dust settling in places it shouldn’t. There are emails waiting, requests for new acquisitions, not to mention adjusting lights. The routine is predictable, comforting. No one questions me here. I move through the museum undisturbed, the fragile plaster casts often my only company – their frozen expressions watching me as I tend to them with careful hands. Most days, the halls stretch empty, the air thick with the scent of dust and age. Visitors come and go, brief guests passing through, their interest fading the moment they step outside. I don’t see anyone more than once. And that suits me just fine.
I exist in the silence, alone and unseen.
But the comfort of my routine fractures the moment I see him – the sharp-suited man from yesterday.
