Chapter 4
FOUR
I waited all of twenty minutes before switching the NO on the vacancy sign on and shutting down for the night. Then I snuck into the walls and went to your room again.
I found you where I found you last time—on the bed, hunched over your laptop, typing away. Now that I knew what you were doing, what you were writing about, I longed even more to read it. How much did you know? Were you onto me? Or were you genuinely curious?
A part of me felt like you knew the truth, and your little comment about wanting to interview a serial killer...was that your way of telling me that you knew it was me and that you didn’t care? That you wanted to interview me?
I stood there, just watching, for half an hour, but when it was obvious you weren’t going to tuck in for the night, I had to do something drastic. I hope you can understand—I didn’t have a choice.
There was this darkness inside me that demanded to be acknowledged and obeyed. I was helpless to do anything but give it what it wanted. And what it wanted was you.
Silently, I covered my face with one of those old gas masks—you know the kind, from World War 2?
It’s black, with these perfectly circular eye holes and a cylinder sticking out from the mouth?
I reached over, twisting one of the hidden valves, and listened as the sickly-sweet gas hissed into your room.
I pressed my eye against the hole again, watching your nose wrinkle. At first, you didn’t react more than that. You probably thought it was just your imagination. But then you realized it was getting stronger, and something wasn’t right with your head.
Did it feel floaty? Did your eyes feel heavy? Did your body feel weaker?
You looked around, as if you were trying to find the source for it. But you wouldn’t.
The gas was invisible to you, but you could smell it.
Confusion filled your face seconds before your eyelids drooped.
You tried to fight it, but you couldn’t—it was inevitable, like a lullaby you couldn’t resist. You fell back onto the bed, head angled strangely.
I watched the last of your fight slip away, watched your breaths turn shallow and deep, until finally…
You slept.
You looked so incredibly peaceful lying there. In that moment, you were helpless. Ripe for the taking. And totally, utterly, completely mine.
For a while, all I could do was just stare at you. Watch your chest rise and fall with your steady, unconscious breaths. Your legs were bent and angled, one of your feet dangling off the edge.
My steps were silent as I took each step toward you. The floorboards didn’t creak. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t do anything to disturb you as I inched closer and closer, until finally, I stood above you, still watching.
I reached out and brushed a lock of hair from your face. You didn’t stir at all. Your sweatshirt rode up your thighs when you fell backward, exposing more of your flesh that made my cock ache.
Your skin was soft beneath my fingertips. I trailed them up your thigh, and watched goosebumps ripple across your body. You shifted, and I paused, but I knew you wouldn’t wake.
You couldn’t.
The gas was now off, but it had taken root inside you.
You’d be out for a while. A part of me wanted to wait until the drug had worn off before I began playing with you.
I wanted you awake but still paralyzed enough to know something was happening but having no way of fighting it.
I wanted to watch you come undone, despite your mind’s protests.
You blew a breath from between your lips as my hand disappeared under the hem of your sweatshirt. I toyed with your shorts but didn’t go higher than that. I was content like this—exploring.
God, you were so soft. Your skin. Your lips. Your hair. Your body. You were all soft curves, not a sharp edge to you.
You were perfect.
I crawled into bed beside you, and allowed myself a moment of fantasy. I thought that you were my wife and we were a normal, happy couple. That we were laying in bed after a night of fucking. Our days would begin and end the same—with me inside you.
Our routine would be perfect.
I rolled onto my side, staring at you. Your head was still angled in a way that would cause your neck to hurt, but I didn’t want to touch you. Not yet. You slept so peacefully, like you trusted me.
Finally, I couldn’t resist anymore, and I wrapped my arms around you, dragging your limp body closer to mine. My eyes traveled down the length of your body, lingering on the worn hem of your shirt.
You’d probably be more comfortable without it.
I trailed my hand down your side, letting my palm glide over every curve. The fabric of your sweatshirt was worn and old. Like you’d had it for years and years. But it would get warm in the room soon—I didn’t want you to get overheated.
Surely, you wouldn’t mind.
Slowly, I dragged it up your body, and your stomach, soft and warm, expanded with each breath. Stretch marks marred your hips, but I didn’t mind. They looked perfect on you—like stripes that showed how full and healthy you were.
Maybe if we were really married, this would be part of our perfect nightly routine. Would you like that? To be drugged and allow your loving husband to explore your body in every way that made me happy?
I could already imagine what it would be like to come home to you after a long day. Watching you cook for me, clean for me, serve me on your knees. You’d watch me with a smile on your face, and then you’d bathe me before I bathed you.
Afterward, I’d carry you to bed and put a mask over your nose and mouth, and watch as the drugs overtook your senses. You’d fight your sleep—because of course you would—but then you’d give in, and you’d never know all the things I did to you.
Maybe I’d film it, so you could watch it during the day while I worked. I’d make you wear a vibrator I controlled, and I’d set up a camera so I could watch a livestream of you getting off to your husband using your incapacitated body.
I blinked, and the fantasy melted away, the reality of my life—our lives—settling in around me.
While lost in thought, I must’ve bunched your shirt higher.
It was up around your arms, exposing your body.
Your nipples were hard, and your breasts were the perfect handful.
Your toes were painted a dark maroon, same as your fingernails.
You were fully exposed to me. You couldn’t hide anything anymore.
I slid from the bed and pulled your clothes the rest of the way off. There was stubbly hair between your legs, not that I cared either way. And as you laid there, head still cocked, body on display, I ground my palm against my cock over my jeans.
Your laptop was at the foot of the bed, the screen dark. I wondered what had been so important that you’d given up sleep to write. For a moment, I contemplated lurking through your digital files, but that would come later. After I had my fun with you, but before the drugs wore off completely.
I set it on the table under the TV and turned back to you, staring at your naked body sprawled out before me like my personal toy. I dropped my hand to the button on my jeans and slid it through the hole.
It was time.