7. Sophie
7
SOPHIE
“ S oren, please,” I beg under my breath. The house is dark and quiet. I don’t want to wake up the next victim and get caught in his house. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.
Serial killers don’t maintain. They degrade. They get sloppy, their mental health plummets and they either die or get locked up forever. I don’t want that. Soren isn’t a bad guy. Plus, his kids need him. And selfishly, I need him too. If my study ends here, it’ll feel incomplete. That begs the question of when it would ever feel complete. Never is a very long time.
“Doctor Moore,” he chides. “I’m working on myself. You should be pleased. Your advice works beautifully.” He waves around his sharpened icicle as he talks. Drops of cold liquid drip in a line like breadcrumbs going deeper into the house.
“I’m worried about you,” I admit. He arches an eyebrow.
“I feel better than ever,” he comments with a hand wave. I sigh.
“You’re starting to spiral. How many people have you killed this week? It’s turning into every night. You even canceled the video call with your kids.” I need him to see the change that’s happening, or I’ll never be able to help him. Soren stops walking, a conflicted expression shuddering over his face.
“I need this,” he whispers, eyes moving to mine.
“You don’t.”
He shakes his head and turns from me. The stairs creak under his boot, and we still. I hold my breath a moment, listening. Then I surge forward and grab his arm, pulling him away from the stairs.
“My icicle is melting,” Soren comments, allowing me to pull him into the man’s living room. The place is dim, besides the twinkling colored lights. They reflect off bauble ornaments. It’s a small room made even smaller by the fake Christmas tree pressed in the corner.
“What can I say to make you not kill this man tonight.” I grip his forearms, tugging on his coat with my hands. He’s better at listening when I’m hands-on.
“ This guy? Tonight? Nothing. Now, excuse me, but the murder weapon is melting all over my glove.” Soren moves around me, back to the stairs.
This is bad. I have a feeling that if he kills tonight, he’ll never develop the ability to withhold killing from himself. It’ll be an addiction he has no tools to control. It’ll be the end of Soren. He won’t be a paramedic or a dad. He’ll just be a killer, slowly losing his ability to function in society.
I need to distract him. I need to be hands-on. This is a crucial moment, and I’m losing him.
“I’ll suck your cock,” I blurt out. Soren stops moving, going completely still. I suck in a sharp breath, surprised by what just came out of my mouth. Where the hell did that come from? Part of me wants to reel the words back in, but he’s reacting.
Soren turns, glancing at me over his shoulder.
“What was that?” He asks. I take a shuddering breath and then drop to my knees next to the living room chair. His eyes widen.
“Come over here,” I say, patting the chair. He turns to me fully, looking shocked and confused.
“I didn’t hear you right,” he says.
“You heard me. Come sit down,” I say. Soren lets out a strangled laugh. He opens his mouth several times without saying anything.
“Sit on the chair, like in therapy?” He finally asks. “ Come in. Sit on your couch and let your therapist … Shit,” he mumbles. Not a second later, he plops in the chair. His eyes track as my tongue nervously darts across my bottom lip. I reach forward, grabbing his zipper. His icicle suddenly shatters in his grip.
“Oops,” he whispers, eyes darting from the ruined murder weapon to me. I hold his eyes as I finish unzipping his pants.
“You do remember we’re trespassing, right?” He sucks in a sharp breath as I reach into his pants. He’s warm and growing hard.
“I know.” I pull him out and swallow thickly. He’s as big here as everywhere else. It looks deceptively normal against his body but alarmingly big in my hand.
“Is this you helping me, Doctor Moore?” He asks softly, a raspy edge to his words.
“I don’t want you to lose yourself.”
“I won’t,” he says. I snort.
“I know.” I lean forward on my knees. My other hand grips his upper thigh to balance. It’s daunting because he’s uncircumcised. I don’t really know what to do. He watches me silently, looking at me, observing him as if he expects me to change my mind now that I’ve seen him.
I lean closer, my breath fanning over him. Finally, I run my tongue over the top while rubbing my thumb in gentle circles. He breathes heavily, his muscles tensing under my hand.
“Do I pull your skin back?” I ask. He rips his gloves off with his teeth. A moment later, he wraps his hand around himself. His other hand gently grabs my chin, his thumb rubbing my lips as he gives himself a few gentle strokes.
When he pulls his hands back, his massive erection sticks straight up in his lap, the head of his cock on full display. I waste no time. I can’t. I’ll lose my nerve, or he’ll shoot up the stairs to murder a man. I take him in my mouth, and Soren groans, melting into the chair.
“My ex,” he panted, “she wouldn’t—” He shuts up when I grip him tighter in my hand. It’s not very professional as his therapist to encourage him to shut the fuck up about his ex, but I think we passed the normal rules when his cock slipped past my parted lips. I slide his tip down the length of my tongue, tracing the shape of him.
“Doctor Moore,” he groans, gripping the chair’s arms. “Fuck.” I pull off of him, and he looks down at me with a desperate plea in his pale eyes.
“You won’t kill tonight?” I ask. He drops his head on the back of the chair with an annoyed groan. I lean forward and flick my tongue over his head.
“I won’t,” he growls. I suck the tip into my mouth, working my hand up and down his length. I keep my attention on his body, listening to it. He likes me concentrating on the tip, sucking and licking on it until his hips are struggling to remain still.
I take my time to enjoy the feeling of him in the mouth. The taste of his skin. The salty hint of his precum. I grip his thigh, and his muscles tense. His groans start soft, hidden beneath long sighs of pleasure.
“You really care, don't you, Doctor Moore?” He asks, resting his hand on my head, gently petting my hair as it bobs in his lap. His legs spread a little more, relaxing into my work.
“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his head again. His hand moves to the back of my neck, squeezing it as I suck on his tip. “I really want to murder the man upstairs.” My tongue flicks his head, tasting more precum. It’s an addicting taste of his pleasure.
“Lucky for him, my therapist gives amazing blowjobs,” he rasps. As I give him long strokes with my hand, his skin slips back over the head of his cock. I keep sucking as it slides over and back.
The soft groans grow louder and more persistent. The deep rumble of his pleasure travels directly from his chest down to me, burying between my thighs.
I’m turned on. The slickness between my legs is collecting. My chest is tight, and my neck tingles.
As his pleasure grows, his body strains, the muscles bunching. He grips my nape tighter, and I remember the way he caught me that first night. How his long legs made him eat up the space. How his body pinned mine down. His breath was on the back of my neck.
“Doctor Moore,” he groans above me. I remember the way he picked me up. The grip on my neck is the barest hint of his strength. I’ve seen it in full action. The way he lifts corpses in his arms, hefting them over his shoulder. I've seen the corded muscles in his arms strain as he lifts an ax and chops bodies like wood for the fire.
He feels the groan in my mouth and shudders in response.
“Keep going, Sophie,” he pants. Keep going, or he’ll kill someone. March up those steps, probably grab a light cord and wrap it around a full-grown man’s neck. A brutal battle he’ll win. He always wins.
I like the way his foreskin moves back and forth over his head. I like the feel of his thickness in my hand. I like the taste of his precum when I gently suck it from the tip. His groans bury between my legs like they wish to penetrate me. The hitches that catch his breath keep me on the edge of my heels, anticipating his orgasm.
I never thought my career would lead me here. Giving a serial killer a blowjob in a potential victim's house. I’ve dropped to my knees to keep my client functioning.
Soren chuckles breathily as if thinking about the same thing. How ridiculous this is. But a half second later, he swallows the laughter, and a long stream of groans releases from his lips. I take him as deep as I can. My lips sink down his length, and Soren fills my mouth, sliding in deep to paint the back of my throat.
He suddenly grabs my throat. His thumb rubs gently, feeling the subtle movements of me swallowing his cum.
“That’s a good girl,” he groans, hips rocking up, searching for more depth.
When he finally starts to soften in my mouth, I try to pull back, but he grips my neck tighter.
“Keep going. Softer,” he rasps. I do as he asks, giving his cock gentle attention. His hands leave me, trusting I’ll do what he’s asked. He relaxes in the chair with his eyes closed.
He hums in pleasure. The horniness is still vibrating in my body, and seeing him lounge like a sated king as I keep his cock warm makes me feel desperate for his touch. I wonder if I keep suckling him long enough if he’ll give me what I need.
There’s something comforting about it. I forget where we are. It doesn’t matter, really. We could be in a snowstorm, and this would still make my body warm. It’s a strange, floaty feeling.
He pets my head. My cheeks are hot, and my eyes are unfocused as I look up at him. The curve of his masculine neck and the cast of Christmas lights on his lax face is almost gorgeous. His chaotic blonde waves look as relaxed as he does. I feel like his servant, on my knees doing this until he says to stop.
I slip into a strange headspace. If he asks for something more, I don’t care what it is; I’ll do it. I'm starting to hope for it. For Soren to pat his lap, “Come here, doctor.” Make me sit on this cock, bouncing up and down while he grips my neck and groans.
Soren’s eyes flick open when there’s movement upstairs. He looks at the ceiling, then down at me, staring at him. A slow smile spreads over his face.
“Better not give me that look.” The ceiling creaks above our heads again. I see desire move through him—bloodthirst in the awful combination of rage and need. His icy eyes flick up to the ceiling as the sounds continue. I can’t look away from him.
Finally, Soren reaches down and grabs my arms, gently pulling me off his cock and getting us both to our feet. My mouth feels empty and cold as he zips himself up and grabs his gloves, shoving them in his pockets.
“Time to go.”
“You aren’t killing him?” My voice sounds relaxed and dopey. His eyes drag to me. Whatever he sees on my face makes him shudder.
“You did a good job helping me, Doctor Moore. I won’t kill tonight.” He reaches up, rubbing his finger over my mouth. I nod.
“Good, that’s good,” I mumble.
“We better go now,” he whispers, staring at my swollen lips. He twists his fingers with mine. “Let’s go home.”
He drags me out of the house quickly. I stumble after him in the thick patches of snow collecting between trees as we slip back into the woods surrounding the house.
I feel weird as we trudge through the snow, off-kilter. There’s a delayed panic blooming slowly in my stomach as my head spins slightly. For some strange reason, I think of bolting away. The idea that my client, a serial killer, is gripping my hand and pulling me through the snow is causing me to almost dissociate. The soft crunches as my boots sink in the snow sound almost fake.
What am I doing? I need to leave. I can still taste him in my mouth. My knees still ache from how long I was on my knees, suckling his soft cock while he relaxed and pet my head.
I lunge to the left, and my fingers slip through his.
Two steps, three, four. I inhale sharply and feel the bite of frigid air aching in my throat.
Then his arms are around me. Tight and oh-so strong. He’s lunged for me with no pretense of a calm attitude. So he won’t let me run. Does that mean I’m not free? That my free will was all a farce?
We fall to the snowy ground, his body blanketing mine.
“What are you doing?” There’s an edge of tension in his voice. I shudder, feeling the weight of him on my back. I’m still horrifyingly turned on. God, wouldn’t it be so perfect to give in to that? I squirm against his body, and he gives a soft grunt in my ear.
“Sophie, you’re freaking out. Please calm down.”
I pant against the snow, shaking my head frantically back and forth. Something feels wrong.
“It’s okay,” he says. His arms stay wrapped around me like he’s never letting go. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” I’m not even fighting his hold. I should be. Instead, I’m resigned. No, it's worse than that. I like it .
“Sophie.” He keeps saying my name, and each time, it brings me a little bit back down to earth. “I’m going to touch you.”
“What,” I whisper into the snow. I feel his hand move low, two fingers sliding between my legs. Is this really happening? The pressure of his fingers slides over my clit, and I gasp.
“This isn’t right,” I say.
“Shh,” he hushes. “Don’t run, Sophie.” His lips brush my ear as he whispers to me. It’s so quiet and desolate in the woods. His fingers keep teasing me, and I squirm, breathing heavily. Each stroke is making me forget how weird I feel.
“This isn’t wrong,” he whispers. My hips sway to meet his fingers. It’s teasing through my thick pants. Soren pulls back to stick his fingers in his mouth, wetting them. Then he digs into my clothes. I feel his hand invade my panties. A shudder of shock rolls over me as the swipe of his saliva-coated finger dips between my lower lips.
Soren’s hot breath is against my neck.
“You’re going to tell me what will get you off,” he whispers. I claw at the snow with my gloved hands, rocking my body into his rubbing.
“It’ll help,” he says. I swallow thickly. “You’re dropping after the high, and you’re freaking out.” His fingers grind between my legs.
I rock back and forth. The more I move, the more I’m grinding against him as well. I can feel the swell of his cock against my ass. Can hear the soft starts of groans that he swallows back down.
I press back, grinding against his length. A groan breaks through his lips, coming from deep in his throat.
“Shit,” he whispers, his lips brushing my skin as he speaks. His hips press me harder into the snow, keeping me from moving.
“Tell me what to do,” he repeats. I swallow thickly.
“Faster.”
“Okay.” His fingers do what I ask, and I moan against the snow. “This isn’t wrong.” He keeps talking as I get closer and closer. “I have to do this.” The pads of his fingers press harder as he rubs. I moan again, and he covers my mouth.
“We’re still too close to the house.” I moan into his palm, feeling the weight of him pressing me into the snow. I think about how he caught me again. How I might very well be his. His what ?
The better question is, what aren’t I. That terrifies me. I can’t be his therapist, his researcher, his fake wife, and whatever this is, too.
“You were dropping. I’m bringing you back,” he says, urging my pleasure with determined movements. “That’s all.”
That’s all , I repeat in my head. It gives the situation order and rules. I’m not turning into his fuckthing. This isn’t a sexual relationship in the standard way. Maybe I shouldn’t have given him a blowjob, but when ethics and morals are so twisted, there’s no point but to keep twisting them for the results I want. He didn’t kill tonight. The first night in almost a week. I’m helping him, and I’ll benefit from it, too. If he degrades, I won’t have my research subject.
His breaths are fast against my neck, mimicking mine. He can tell I’m getting closer, and he can’t help but react.
I grip his wrist, holding him tight as I grind against his hand. The orgasm spills over me. My hips move sloppy half circles, pulling his hand in closer.
“Careful,” he threatens as my hips press down, blindly trying to impale myself on his fingers. “That’s not what this is, right Doctor Moore?” He asks, his voice as cold as ice. I rip his hand from my pants in an instant. He’s right. This was just a necessary action after what I did for him. We aren’t in a sexual relationship.
Still, I’m unsure what exactly he’s thinking, and it drives a raging flush to my cheeks. Maybe he doesn’t want more. Lord fucking forbid a finger slips inside me.
Soren leaps up from my back like I’m on fire and then rips me off the ground. I refuse to look at his face. Instead, I look at his fingers. Which are damp from my pussy. He flexes his hand and shoves it in his pocket. Then turns and starts to walk away. I stare at his retreating back. I don’t feel like running anymore. I just want to go home, and home is Soren’s house.
I trudge after him, following him back.
It’s not until I’m under the covers in my bed, staring at the door, that it all finally hits me. I touch my swollen lips and ask myself if I’ll offer my mouth again. How many times? How far will I go to keep Soren from degrading?
I won’t fuck him. I need control in this situation and control means we aren’t fucking. That isn’t what this is.
I climb back out of bed and grab my notepad. I make tidy columns and list what I hope to gain from all this and what I’m willing to offer.
It takes admitting some things to myself, like how boring I find family counseling. It’s a fine job, and I’m not bad at it. But it lacks satisfaction.
The last time I felt satisfied with what I was doing was before I quit my thesis on psychopathy. And now the universe just gifted me something unreal. An active, psychopathic killer who wants to do interviews with me.
I could make history with a book about Soren. I feel rejuvenated, finally back to wanting to stay up all night researching and thinking. I also feel a sense of relief that I don’t have to keep doing the same daily routine I have been.
I was too young to settle. Who fucking wasn’t? No one needs to settle who doesn't want to. Yeah, I was reaching my mid-thirties, and guess what? It was the prime of my life. The new leg of the race. I spent the second half of my twenties and the start of my thirties trying to find a sense of calm. Maybe I needed that at first, but now it’s slowly subduing me into a state of daily dissociation.
Now Soren’s here, bringing a caffeinated jolt to my routine. I was willing to drop to my knees to keep him.