3. Amelie
AMELIE
PLAYLIST: PIXIE — ALEXANDRIA
Igrin internally as I watch Professor McKenzie talking about her work. She’s young, and if I am not entirely mistaken, very much neurodivergent. I’d guess autism. While I know it is not always visible, it shows. At least when you know the cues, like me.
I haven’t spent years studying psychology and the criminal mind in my previous life for nothing. I might have been a role, but I still have the knowledge I gained.
The way she moves and holds her hands, reacts to strong eye contact, and speaks. I know how to read people, and I know how to utilize the cues I get.
I am still on drugs from the night before with El, and it’s like everything in my mind is heightened. I see things a little too sharply. And feel too much.
Normally, I’d not draw that much attention to myself, but it felt as if she needed a little push because I most certainly distracted her. And it’s kinda cute, I distract her. Also, playing with fire? I fucking love it.
So I did what I am good at: being someone others need me to be.
The friend I had to be for a girl in my past life.
The rich girl’s distraction from her shitty father.
The security for a professor I don’t know at all.
My mind wanders off.
El and I have been hanging out the past two weeks, and we basically used them getting high and have sex on that high.
Sometimes for hours, if not days. We didn’t get out of bed for the entire last weekend.
I feel as if I caught up with years of lesbian sex in the past two weeks, and it changed me.
I feel different. So much more…sophisticated.
I learned so much about what I like and dislike, and El, who is a sex addict, gave me the room to just try me out. And it feels good. Knowing things about me.
Or it could be the drugs. The drugs that make me feel above everything. I don’t know, I don’t care. It feels way too good not to do it.
I catch myself staring into nothingness and force myself to listen to the lecture for a moment.
What the professor talks about is nothing I haven’t already heard of or read about. I mean, after all, I held a master’s in Criminology, it’s not that I didn’t learn a shitton of stuff.
So instead of listening, I watch her. Watch her move. The way her eyes light up whenever she talks about a topic she is particularly interested in. I study her clues, her patterns. It is quite illuminating.
Somehow, it brings me joy to watch her.
Jane has medium-long hair that reaches just to her shoulders.
A dark, natural auburn-copper hair and wears a simple blouse and slippers.
Her entire appearance is focused on simplicity and not drawing too much attention, almost the same aim I had, but with her, it is different.
She knows who she is, or at least she pretends to.
Deep down, she seems to be insecure. My guess is that she might not pick up all the social cues, which is probably why she is so interested in the human mind and the neuroscience behind it, something I can relate to.
I didn’t think I’d ever say that, but the way she talks about brain chemistry right now is quite hot. She gets so confident, so elated. She burns for it, and it draws my interest.
And then, everything changes.
The door to the room opens.
It’s not far from where I sit on my chair at the end of a row.
I register it immediately, it’s something I might never get out of my system, because I always had to be on edge in my past life. Needed to be able to leave fast and defend quickly.
A man steps. He’s probably in his forties, with a beard and a balding hairline. And his eyes—
My body tenses immediately. It knows the man means trouble. The way he holds himself. The way he looks.
Jane doesn’t register him; she is so immersed in her topic, but I do.
I see his movement.
His looks.
The anger.
The entitlement.
The world around me freezes as I jump up.
Run towards him.
His outstretched arm rises, pointing directly at Jane.
“DOWN! GUN!” I scream as I lounge myself at the man.
I was trained for this. My father trained me since I was six years old on how to defend myself, how to overpower someone with a gun, how to fight, and how to navigate situations under stress and threat to life. So I act like I have been trained to.
A shot resounds through my ears as I push the man into the wall and hit down the gun arm.
People scream.
I handle the man with force; the gun falls to the ground. He has a lot of body mass, but he isn’t trained. It takes me three seconds to have him on the floor, his arm on the back with my knee pressing with all my weight and force on his lower back.
He tries to fight me, but I just pull that arm higher.
“Don’t even try, fucker,” I say darkly, grab the gun from the floor, and press his own gun against the back of his neck.
I turn my head to see if anyone was hit.
Everyone’s crouched down for cover behind the wooden rows of chairs. Jane is kneeling next to the lectern. Her arms are crossed in front of her, she is breathing flatly, muttering something to herself while rocking softly back and forth.
It confirms what I suspected. Autism. Or a severe trauma reaction. Maybe both, as it so often correlates.
“Anyone call or get security!” I shout into the room, before I look back at Jane. “Professor McKenzie,” I call for her, but she does not react.
There’s nothing I can do from here, so I wait. The wait for security to arrive is almost unbearable. I count the seconds and reach 279. Way too long.
Four men arrive and handcuff the attacker. Two of them are NYPD. The moment I push myself off the guy on the floor, I hand them the gun. I know it will be run, but my identity is solid, so I hand them the gun with my fingerprints on it.
The officers want to question me, but I tell them to wait a moment.
I get over to Jane.
She’s still rocking herself there, not reacting to anything that is happening.
I sit on the ground in front of her, close but at an arm’s distance.
“Parasympathetic postganglionic cells and all preganglionic axons produce and release acetylcholine as a neurotransmitter, while sympathetic postganglionic cells produce and use norepinephrine,” I say, rehearsing what I read in the recommended coursework book by Breedlove it is by all means not a small one, and then she starts riding.
I watch her perfectly shaped silhouette, as she aches and moves her ass up and down—and something in my core stirs. Seeing the dildo entering her, the vulva picture in the background—it’s hot.
At some point, I start to push up my hips in response to her movement.
She moans and begins touching herself. It is not just hot. It’s unbelievably erotic how she gets herself off without. She is so careless, so free, so consuming—
I want to touch her, too. So I do.
I push my hands off the bed, grasp around her, so close she can’t move, and then, I fuck her with fast thrusts until she screams.
“Oh, gods! I’m so gonna come!”
I just grunt, being completely out of breath because it takes all my power to fuck her—and then she explodes.
I lose my grip slightly and let her ride out the orgasm with her head fallen back. Meanwhile, I caress her wonderful, round breasts. After a moment, I squeeze her nipple. Hard.
She squeaks, and I say, “You better make me come now too, because that was the hottest thing ever.”
She laughs as she gets up and stands in front of me.
“Give me that,” she says and points at the harness.
I tilt my head slightly as I remove it.
“I think I’d rather like you to use your tongue,” I say and throw the harness away.
“I really got you hooked on that, didn’t I?” she says, smirking with rose cheeks and her sweaty skin.
“Uh-huh,” I say as I lean back onto my elbows, opening my legs.
She just hums and sinks to her knees. And as her tongue trails from my inner thighs over my lips down there, and I watch the picture she got, I have completely forgotten what had happened today. All thoughts of the attack and the professor just vanished from my mind.