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His clumsy hand grips her hip and he stabs away at her with poor, rhythmic thrusts. I’m watching through video and yet it’s evident she’s barely wet, if wet at all.
Who the hell taught you how to fuck, micro penis?!
Another brilliant male of this generation raised off porn.
My teeth are grinding to the point of pain by the time he comes. He pulls out and falls asleep in what must be a minute, two at most. Completely oblivious to the fact that he’s satisfied and Lyra is left hanging.
The girl seems resigned to this outcome.
With a deep sigh, she rubs herself to the soundtrack of the junkie loser’s snores. She comes with a faint tremble and then rolls the opposite way he is, facing the window with her gaze on the inky sky.
Slowly, she nods off…
The disappointment drips from my phone screen.
So you’re not being fucked properly, little lamb. How about I do you a favor?
Before I’m compelled to do what I must do and end you.
I drum my fingers on my steering wheel and watch Lyra sleep. I’ve taken to this habit the past few nights. Ever since setting up the cameras in her bedroom.
The sight of her asleep fascinates me. So still, so peaceful, so inexplicably erotic in a way.
Perhaps it has to do with how she sleeps half naked. She lays wonderfully still with the sensual curves of her body on display. The steep dip of her waist rises into the swell of her hips and then fills out into thighs I bet are achingly soft.
Sometimes, her tank top slips down and her breasts peek out. Pointed tips that beg to be suckled.
Lyra Hendrix has never been fucked properly. That much is clear. The girl deserves at least one explosive orgasm before she dies.
Earlier she demonstrated what I suspected about her talent; she played the piano flawlessly. I sat in awe as Lyra’s delicate fingers soared across the keys and played a breathtaking rendition of Chopin’s Nocturne in C-minor.
Even her bitch of a manager admitted she was impressive.
My view momentarily shifted. Her gift wasn’t the kind that came along often. It was to be treasured in a decaying society like Easton.
Then she had to go and ruin my piqued curiosity, my possibly changing opinion, and allow that grubby-handed junkie to touch her.
Fuck her.
I stow away my phone with a dissatisfied scowl and ragged breath. I can’t even savor the view of her sleeping tonight when all I can think about is how she let that loser touch her.
It can’t happen again.
A dark, impulsive idea blooms to life in my twisted frame of mind.
Grady as she’d called him, can’t fuck her again if he’s met an unfortunate ending. Have I just stumbled upon my next true kill?
He meets my criteria as a loser male leeching off society and providing nothing of value. At best he’s a pothead. At worst, he’s into much harder drugs.
Something tells me it’s the latter.
It doesn’t matter regardless. I can plant quite the murder scene. Because of my profession, I have an unfettered access to medications and prescription drugs.
Grady will be found dead by overdose. No one will question it. Barely anyone will care.
The murder plot takes form as I go to push the ignition start button. I’ll wait outside Lyra’s apartment and then catch him on his way out tomorrow morning. He’ll be found in two days in some alleyway after a presumed bender…
A man strolls down the block toward the Velvet Piano and interrupts my sinister thoughts. It takes me half a moment to recognize him; however, once he passes under a lamp post and light illuminates his face, I do.
