5. Santa
Chapter 5
Santa
A fter rifling through their dirty recycling bins before I escaped undetected last night, which was not exactly one of my finest moments, I managed to grab items with Chrissy’s full name, and that of her roommate, on them before I gave up on my night of stalking, and returned home, filled with frustration that I didn’t get to satisfy my craving for her death at my hands.
I’ve barely slept more than three hours, the anticipation and excitement of a new hunt, and capturing my delectable prey, keeping me wired. I tap along my keyboard at rapid speed, doing a deep dive into everything Chrissy Cranbrook. My eyes focus on the information appearing, and painting a less-than-inspiring picture of the woman who caught my unhinged interest, by getting me thrown out of the bar.
She’s twenty-seven, according to her driver’s license, and a Boston native. She spent most of her formative years being shuffled from one house to another in the foster care system. A brief mention of her mother, in a sealed document I hacked, provided information on her one and only parent, who seems to have taken her own life when Chrissy was three years old. Despite what must have been a challenging youth, she excelled academically and in sports, and seemed to stay out of trouble. Go figure, with a mouth on her like she has, I’m surprised. Her multiple achievements materialize before my eager eyes, and they all appear to end with her high school graduation. The bitch even won a national spelling competition in the eighth grade, and was homecoming queen two years in a row. Why didn’t she go on to college? I can’t imagine a school not wanting to accept her, based on her grades alone, and give her a free ride.
More and more questions arise in my mind at the puzzle before me. I check her bank account records next, and observe that she’s almost constantly in the red, despite seeing two different paycheck sources being deposited. Her credit cards are all maxed out, and she doesn’t seem to be using them to buy frivolous things for herself. Instead, I see payments for mundane things like her phone bill, groceries, and pet store charges. A recent charge for a thousand-dollar vet clinic catches my eye. That must be for the damn beast that could have eaten me last night.
Her social media accounts are nothing but pictures of her, her roommate, and a huge black dog who has to outweigh her by more than fifty pounds, yet she treats it like a baby. Nothing indicates that she has a significant other, or many friends aside from the one named Daisy. She has videos and pictures of different park settings, all within the city and all featuring her hellhound. This chick is boring as fuck, and I would be doing her a kindness, ending her existence.
A few more clicks of my fingers bring up any possible interactions with law enforcement. More boring shit, years ago, she got a few speeding tickets and one drunken, disorderly citation at nineteen. I keep looking; there has to be more on this woman, something I can use to lure her to me, wrap my chains around her neck, and rip her beating heart out of her chest. My cravings for destruction and mayhem are rising to unmanageable levels. Soon, I will lose control, and then it will be a bloodbath.
What’s this? The police have a sealed file? I break open the file with no issues, my skills unmatched for their flimsy attempts at keeping me out, and my eyebrows rise to my hairline. It seems Miss Perfect had battery and assault charges against her when she was seventeen. She did community service instead of time, for assaulting her ex-boyfriend with a crowbar, after he attacked and beat her and her best friend, and tried to rape them. Interesting. The pictures of the condition she left him in make me feel all warm and tingly inside, or as close to that as possible, since I usually feel nothing at all. It seems there’s rage buried under all that creamy skin. Delicious, I can’t wait to experience it, and mar its perfection.
I quickly take note of his name and current address, so I can pay him a visit and release my current frustrations on him. Not because I give a shit what he did to Chrissy. I don’t have the capacity for most human emotions, having been diagnosed years ago with antisocial personality disorder. The broad spectrum of petty things, like remorse or kindness, don’t interest or move me. My sociopathic and psychopathic tendencies usually lead me to focus only on satisfying my own needs. Right now, I need to see blood splattered across various walls, and hear the screams of someone begging me for their worthless life. The fact that Mark Fisherville hurt Chrissy once upon a time means nothing to me. He’s a means to assuage my fury at losing my prey last night.
I take note of the time on my computer screen. I wonder if she’s working at the diner listed as her other source of employment right now. My cock jerks in my sweatpants at the thought of seeing her. It could be amusing to have her serve me, without realizing that I’m the same guy from last night. There is no way she would be able to correlate me with the male she had thrown out of the bar without the Santa costume. I wonder if I could charm her, make her fall for me, and then use that as a way to get her alone. I could drug her and take her to my cabin, far from the bustle of the city, and do whatever I want to her.
Fuck, now I’m hard, as I picture her tied naked and spread eagle against the rough, wooden St. Andrews cross I made. Her body would be covered in lashes from my leather whip, and bite marks from my teeth. She would look so beautiful with tears sliding down that perfect face. Her mouth filled with one of my ball gags, and a collar around her throat, restricting her airflow. All that creamy alabaster skin just waiting for my wicked ministrations, and that rich, soft, auburn hair wrapped around my fist, as I force her neck to arch for me.
My phone vibrates on the desk next to me as I palm my aching, hard cock, the images flooding my brain causing me intense pleasure. It stops and starts again, the annoying person pissing me off, and breaking my concentration on my depraved daydream. I wonder if her cunt is as pretty as her face, and if she’ll scream and plead for her life, while I fuck her pussy with my cock, while shoving one of my blades in her ass. “What?” I shout, as I place the call on speaker and pull my cock out, fisting it, and giving it deep, hard strokes.
“Is that any way to greet your father, Nicholas?” A deep, annoyed, cultured voice questions. “I’m positive your mother is rolling in her grave, thanks to your deplorable manners.”
I squeeze the pierced tip of my engorged cock firmly, swallowing a moan, and yank on one of my testicles, the hit of pain making my cock even harder. “Pretty sure she’s also rolling in there after watching the rotating line of young whores you continuously stick your cock into, Dad. Y ou know, the ones young enough to be your daughter or granddaughter.“ I bite down hard on my bottom lip, the taste of blood adding further enticement to my aroused state as I pick up speed, my fingers tightening around the metal piercings in my shaft, as I stroke myself rapidly toward completion.
“You don’t get to judge me, boy.” His bitterness makes the corners of my lips quirk upwards, fuck, I love winding him up. The truth is I couldn’t care less who he sticks his dick inside of. “No, only the taxpayers whose money you spend, so your whores spread their legs wide for you can judge you, but they don’t, do they? ‘Cause I make sure to wipe clean all your sins before they can get wind of them.” A grunt leaves my lips as I cum all over my hand and lap, the warm sticky fluid giving me momentary relief from all my aggravation, at having to deal with this asshole. I raise my fingers to my mouth and lick them clean, the salty, bitter taste of my cum hitting my tongue, and making me want to explode all over again. The truth is, if I could contort my body so I could suck my own cock, I’d probably never leave the damn house again. Alas, I can’t, so I need my victims to help slake my thirst.
“I have something I need you to take care of. Where are you now? I’ll send your brother to you.” I wipe the remaining cum on my pants and shake my head in vexation. This asshole only calls me when he gets himself buried in shit. Otherwise, he’s happy to ignore his oldest son just fine. “I’m heading out in a bit. Whatever it is will have to wait, something else already has my attention.”
“Table it, Nicholas, whatever it is, it’s not important. Christmas is in four days, I can’t have this shit spilling into the news,” he argues, and I can hear the fear he’s trying to hide in his tone.
“What did you do?” I get up, grab my phone, and head towards the bathroom to shower. I wonder if I can make him beg me for my help. It might make me feel better, even if I know nothing he does is ever sincere. If I’m a psychopath, it’s because he was my example and role model growing up. A huge, frustrated sigh sounds down the line, and I hear the distinct sound of his office door slamming. Shit, this must be really bad if he’s actually in his office, and not out schmoozing with lobbyists and fucking prostitutes. “Your idiot brother was involved in a hit-and-run last night. He was driving high as a kite on coke, and a hooker was giving him a blow job, when it happened.”
A deep, rumbling laugh escapes me at the picture he paints with his words. I laugh so hard at the image of my eager-to-please, shiny, and perfect younger brother getting himself into such a damaging situation. “It’s not funny, Nicholas. This could crucify me in the polls. He killed someone, and left them there bleeding in the middle of the street.”
As much as I want to keep laughing, he’s right. This is not funny, and my brother is an idiot. Knowing him, there is no way he took care of the hooker who witnessed what he did, or covered his tracks with the body. “Where is the body?” I question as I strip down and palm my cock again with sadness, knowing full well I’m not likely to get another round in now.
“At the city morgue, listed as a hit and run. It will only be a matter of time before they start going back through the traffic cams, and the local CCTV. They’ll see it was him, because he was driving his own car.” The sound of something shattering, on his side of the line, gives me a good indication of how worked up he is already. Great, my father is an asshole on a good day. A little fear of losing everything he’s got will make him bloody unbearable, and I don’t look forward to having to be in his malignant presence. “I’ll take care of it. Have him meet me at the Scrambled Fork in forty minutes, and Dad, you’ll fucking owe me for this shit. No more playing Santa at your events.”
I hang up the phone on him before he can get another word out, and turn the water to the highest setting. It sluices down my hard, rigid body, causing my muscles to relax, and my tattooed skin to redden. Thoughts of what I want to do to Chrissy re-enter my mind, and I fuck my palm hard and fast, until my cum paints the tiled wall of my shower.
I hope she’s as much fun in real life as she is in my imagination. I guess we’re about to find out.