Predator: an absolutely gripping psychological serial killer thriller

by Zoe Caldwell

  ‘Great,’ he says, pulling a marker from a pocket on his apron. ‘It’s for the cups.’ He winks, before scrawling my name down.

  ‘Right!’ I laugh, shaking my head, as I walk to the end of the counter to wait for my drinks.

  4

  By the time I get home, I’m dying for sex.

  I cross the jasmine-and-rose-scented hallway and slide my key into my front door. My flat is pristine, as always. I was barely home last night, apart from the brief interlude between the pub and Julian’s death, and all Julian and I did then was share a glass of wine. I left our glasses in the sink when I got back from killing him, had a shower and went to bed, but my cleaner has hoovered anyway. She’s tidied away the glasses, spritzed the surfaces of near-imperceptible dust, plumped up the cushions on the sofa, and made my flat exactly the way I like it: immaculate, spotless, as clean as a luxury five-star hotel.

  I walk over to the kitchen and place my handbag on the breakfast bar. I open the fridge and retrieve a bottle of sparkling lemon and spirulina water and pour myself a large glass. The bottle of half-drunk Tignanello Antinori Toscana is still on the counter, but I can’t face alcohol today. The tequila shots and wine I had last night were a lot for me, particularly when coupled with the adrenaline rush I got from using my Excalibur crossbow. After last night’s excess, I need something healthy, cleansing, calming. I need to replenish and get my endorphins back up, but that’s where sex comes in.

  I take my sparkling water and walk over to the sofa, kicking off my Dolce & Gabbana pumps before lying back into the soft leather. I picture Julian lying in this exact spot last night, how he made himself at home, slumping into the cushions. I turn my head and sniff the leather, wondering if I might be able to smell him on it. He smelt of washing powder, deodorant, sweat, but I can’t detect his scent. All I can smell is the skin of a dead calf, more present than Julian at this point. I sit up a bit straighter and take a sip of my drink, wondering who to call.

  I have a few lovers on the go at the moment. The longest standing is an actor I refer to as Mr USA to my friends. His real name’s Alexander Müller and he’s not actually American; he’s German with the kind of striking Aryan look that means he’s constantly being cast in war films. He used to be based in London, but he’s in LA these days, trying to crack Hollywood. We were introduced at a party a few years ago and the attraction was instant, the chemistry magnetic. He saw through me in a second and knew exactly what I liked. He comes to London a couple of times a year and likes to engage in all manner of kink during his visits. He has a thing for Kinbaku. He’s into blindfolding me, slapping and whipping, choking me, restraints. There’s something about Alexander’s steely-blue eyes, his thin masculine lips, and broad, imposing body that turns me into his very own personal sex slave. I love his visits. But he’s not around much. That’s probably part of his appeal. If he wanted kink all the time, it might get tacky, but as a treat when he’s in town, it’s delicious. But alas, he’s in Hollywood at the moment, playing a detective in a spy thriller – a new role for him that’s meant he’s been off the radar for a while.

  Who else? There’s Vanessa. An incredibly beautiful academic I met in a gay bar in Soho one Friday night. She appealed to me not only because she looks like something from a Pre-Raphaelite painting but because she’s totally clueless about popular culture. She barely knows what Couture magazine is, let alone that I’m the editor. And for that reason, we can be discreet. She thinks I’m a fashion designer, and since she’s not even remotely interested in fashion, she’s asked about as many questions as I’d ask an insurance broker. She’s doing a PhD on ‘metaphysical modality’ – whatever the fuck that is – and she reads Aristotle and Kierkegaard for fun. Although Aristotle’s her favourite. She likes to go on about achieving eudemonia – living well through virtuous and moral deeds. It almost makes me feel a little bad for her that she’s fucking a serial killer. Her fashion sense, which mostly consists of hoodies and leggings is horrific, but I prefer her with her clothes off. It’s Vanessa’s body that gets me. Her round, pert breasts with their pretty pink nipples like cherries on a cupcake. But I’m not in the mood for Vanessa tonight. I want Abay.

  Body-wise, my other lover, Abay, whose full name is Abayomi, isn’t wholly dissimilar to Julian. In fact, he’s even more ripped. Fifteen stone of muscle and six foot two, he’s huge. Unlike Mr USA and Vanessa, he’s not even good-looking. One of his front teeth is chipped from a fight he got into years ago and he couldn’t care less about getting it fixed. He’s only twenty-seven, but he already has a deep frown line permanently etched down his forehead. He has the most aggressive resting bitch face I’ve ever seen. In fact, it’s a resting don’t-fuck-with-me-or-I’ll-fucking-kill-you face, and yet I find him weirdly attractive. I like how little he cares about being charming. He’s not interested in what anyone thinks of him and that makes him insanely appealing. And he fucks like an absolute animal. He throws me around, uses me, reduces me to a piece of meat to be toyed with, manipulated into whatever position he fancies. He’s what I want tonight. I want to be used, like I used Julian. I want someone to overpower me this time.

  I click into WhatsApp and send him a message.

  Me: Hey, what are you up to?

  This is my way of saying, do you want to come over for sex, and Abayomi knows it. I take a sip of my drink and stare at the screen, urging him to come online. He’s usually quite freely available since he works at the gym I go to five minutes down the road. Fitting hook-ups in between personal training sessions is handy for both of us. Abay gets to release all the pent-up sexual tension he experiences from being in an environment packed full of pheromones and sweat and sexy people in Lycra and I get my very own cardio sessions. We manage to see each other once or twice a week. In fact, it occurred to me recently that I probably see Abay more than I see anyone else, outside work. I see him more regularly than my friends. And we have a strange rapport. As well as having sex, we chat, sharing day-to-day problems and giving each other advice, but we both know where to draw the line. We don’t get too personal. Abay knows nothing about my family, my hopes, my dreams, or my secrets, and he doesn’t want to know. Our chats are like water cooler conversations you’d have with an office confidante – close but not too close. I know Abay keeps his distance on purpose. He’s a skilled Casanova and he thinks that by keeping conversation light, he’ll stop feelings from developing. But he doesn’t realise I’d never open up anyway. That the place where my feelings are meant to be is a void. That our water cooler sex chats are as close as I’ll ever get to anyone.

  I stare at his name on my phone. Abayomi. It’s Nigerian. I googled it once, it means ‘born to bring me joy’. That made me laugh. I will the ticks on my message to turn blue, but they stay grey – unread. Urghh. If only Julian hadn’t been a creep and I could have recruited him to my team of lovers, then I’d have backup for times like these. I chuck my phone onto the cushion beside me and let out a groan, pondering my vibrator collection. Even a session with my new Satisfyer wouldn’t come close to sex with Abayomi. It’s just not the same. I roll my eyes, cursing my fate, when suddenly my phone buzzes. I grab it. It’s him!

  Abayomi: Busy with a client. Free from 9. Shall I come over?

  I grin, clutching my phone to my chest.

  Me: Sounds good. See you soon x

  Perfect.

  ‘Hey,’ Abay says as I open the door.

  ‘Hey,’ I reply as he steps into my flat.

  He’s wearing a branded gym T-shirt under a zip-up hoodie with black tracksuit bottoms. Clothes always look strange on Abay, like shrink wrapping. He’s like one of those superheroes, the Incredible Hulk. It feels as though with one deep breath, one roar, his chest could burst right through the flimsy fabric.

  Unlike Abay, I’m delicately dressed in a black, embroidered Fleur du Mal Lily bra with matching knickers. I’ve thrown on my new pearlescent-pink silk Gilda & Pearl Mia robe with ostrich feather cuffs. The feather cuffs tickle my wrists, but t
he silk is light and smooth against my skin. It’s a beautiful robe and I’ve been dying to wear it. The whole outfit is gorgeous, but it’s the kind of thing Mr USA would appreciate more than Abay. Abay doesn’t care what kind of underwear I’ve got on. He wouldn’t know Agent Provocateur from Asda.

  I’m so accustomed to using fashion to get ahead, to project the right kind of image. But to Abay, it doesn’t matter what I wear. I don’t have to worry about how I come across when I’m around him. Trying to pass as the kind of person I’m not requires a constant, sustained effort and it can grow wearying. Sometimes, I simply can’t be bothered, and I want to be around people like Abay – unpretentious, normal people. When I’m around him, I can let my guard down, just a bit. It doesn’t matter if I trip up, if I let my roots show. Abay doesn’t even notice. He takes me as I am. To him, I’m just Camilla – the hot woman from the gym. And that’s enough.

  Abay looks me up and down, taking in my robe and my underwear, but he doesn’t even smile. Although despite his permanent scowl I can see from his wide eyes that he’s somewhat impressed.

  He leans in for a kiss. Quick. Gruff. His hands trace over my hip, lightly, fleetingly, electrifyingly. His smell is immediate. It always hits me. A musty smell, sharp, unapologetic, and incredibly sexy. Abay dumps his sports bag by the door and shrugs off his hoodie. He hangs it on a peg, next to my Burberry coat, which I’ve draped over a hanger that dangles from one of the hooks. I keep all my coats on hangers, naturally – a habit which Abay finds ridiculous, claiming only an English person would ‘hang a hanger on a hanger’. Whatever. My Burberry coat is hung up next to my new, incredibly cool PVC Fendi trench, my chic, beige, camel-hair coat from Max Mara and my unashamedly ostentatious, panelled, mink Zen jacket by Liska, which is concealed in a plastic sheath. I keep the rest in my wardrobe, but these are my current favourites. As if I’m just going to hang them straight on the pegs! Unlike Abay with his cheap hoodies, my coats cost thousands. But of course, he doesn’t understand so I let him poke fun.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asks as he heads to the kitchen. He retrieves a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water straight from the tap. That’s another thing Abay laughs at me for. He finds my refusal to drink tap water hilarious. As well as preferring the taste of Evian, I admitted to him once that I worry the high levels of oestrogen in London water could make me fat. Abay cried with laughter, before coaxing me into taking a sip of his water. Then he led me to the bedroom to burn it off.

  I reflect on his question. What’s up? Nothing much. Killed a rapist last night. The usual.

  Instead, I make a glib remark about being busy at work. Abay responds by offloading about his boss, Rebecca, who he’s always giving off about. His latest grievance is that she’s changed his shift pattern from early in the morning to midday.

  ‘It’s much harder to get clients then. I swear she has it in for me,’ he insists, glowering as he sips his water.

  I laugh. One thing about Abay is he’s an overthinker. A bit paranoid, like me in that respect. He’s not your usual personal trainer: all muscle, charm and chat. He’s actually quite smart. He got a place to study maths at Newcastle but dropped out in his second year. He couldn’t keep up and moved back to south London, where he’d grown up, where he felt at home. Except I think the whole experience has made him feel like an outsider ever since. Abay knows he’s a bit too good to be a personal trainer and yet he’s never quite felt good enough to aim higher. That’s probably the reason behind his permanent scowl, his insatiable sexual appetite, like a druggie constantly looking for a fix, an escape.

  ‘I’m sure Rebecca doesn’t have it in for you,’ I say, sidling up behind him as he refills his glass.

  I place my hands on his taut hips, solid underneath the creased cotton of his jogging bottoms. I slide my palms across his chest, feeling his abs rolling under my fingertips.

  ‘I’ll help you feel better,’ I purr into his ear. ‘I don’t have it in for you.’

  I run my fingers over his chest again and trace the hem of his jogging bottoms, before slowly sliding my hand inside. His dick is already hard.

  He doesn’t react, taking another sip from his glass of water instead.

  I hold his dick, feeling his warm skin, the familiar bulge of his cock. It’s taut, tightening against my touch.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Abay spins around so fast that my hand slips away. He gives me his signature scowl, but I respond with a playful smirk.

  ‘Excited, are we?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  Abay glares at me, but his eyes flicker mischievously. He places his glass down on the counter and holds my gaze.

  If I was that twat in Fifty Shades of Grey right now, my inner goddess would be doing somersaults or some shit, but instead I just stand facing him, my Mia robe gaping open, my nipples straining against the soft lace of my bra, a throbbing heat between my legs.

  ‘Come here,’ Abay says, and in one swift motion, he dips his hands around my thighs and lifts me like an origami bird, placing me on my marble kitchen counter. That’s another reason I adore Abay – he makes me feel so light, so insubstantial, so powerless. When I’m around him, I have no menace, it’s all his.

  I sit at the edge of the counter. Abay stands in front of me. I open my legs to let him closer. He stands before me and looks me up and down, taking in my eyes, my lips, my smooth stomach, my pretty underwear. His dick is bulging under his tracksuit bottoms. He’s not kissing me yet, preferring to tease me instead. I’m wet already, begging for his touch. I shrug off my robe, letting it fall onto the marble worktop behind me, then I reach behind my back and undo my bra, lowering it slowly from my shoulders, watching Abay’s eyes cloud over with desire as I do so.

  ‘Mmmm…’ Abay takes a step closer and plunges his lips to my neck, vampire-like.

  He bites me gently, sucks, licks my skin, his hands on my waist, reaching up, pinching my bullet-like nipples. I let out a moan, unable to suppress my desire any longer. Abay responds by kissing me, plunging his tongue into my mouth. We kiss passionately, hungrily, ravenously. He lowers his lips to my breasts and sucks hard on my nipples, flicking his tongue expertly over them. I groan, throwing my head back, my hair falling over my shoulder blades. I draw my legs open wider, inviting him to touch me, but he keeps teasing me instead. I grab his top and pull it off him, revealing his body, his magnificent chest. His body never ceases to amaze me. I love his large muscles and his soft, dark skin. Abay has a natural glow, a radiant luminosity that I know isn’t achieved through high-end products. His skin’s like polished wood – buffed, smooth, reflective. His body catches the light, the contours of his muscles like the work of a skilled carpenter. He’s a marvel. I drape myself around him, winding my legs over his back, pulling him closer. He presses his lips to mine, his kisses hungry and deep, betraying his desire. The need and want his scowling face would never admit.

  Abay likes to kiss, but I prefer it when his tongue is on other parts of me. I pull away, sighing ‘Fuck me’ into his ear. He half smiles and picks me up, feather light. He carries me into my bedroom and drops me onto my pink silk La Perla sheets, indelicately, like a bag of bones. I make an effort to recover my composure and recline sexily. Abay stands over me, staring at me, with those hot menacing eyes as he pulls off his jogging bottoms and boxers in one swift motion. He drops them to the floor and slowly crawls on top of me. I feel tiny underneath him. His massive body makes my bed dip. He plants kisses on my neck, my breasts, my stomach, and finally, he pulls off my knickers, chucking them aside.

  ‘Mmmm…’ he moans. ‘I love your neat little pussy.’

  I smile.

  He slips his fingers between my legs and slides one, then two inside me.

  ‘You’re so wet,’ he groans, moving his fingers back and forth.

  The feel of his thick fingers inside me makes me even wetter. My pussy’s so slick, so soft and warm that it feels like it’s melting. I let out a sigh of pleasure. I could come right now. The sight of
Abay’s body, his rock-hard cock, his powerful physique, his fingers drilling into me, the mean look in his eyes, laced with lust – it’s enough to send me over the edge.

  ‘Do that harder,’ I tell him.

  He slams his fingers into me, pointed like a revolver. He pounds me, smacking into me, making my whole body jolt with each movement. I moan. He bites down on his lip, scowls at me, he loves what he sees. His cock is bulging, the tip glistening with precum.

  ‘Choke me,’ I plead.

  He knows what I like. His hand is already raised. He presses his palm down onto my neck, as he simultaneously lowers his lips to my nipple. He sucks my breast while restricting the blood supply to my brain. He slams his fingers into me, over and over, while slowly tightening his chokehold. It’s intoxicating.

  The pressure inside me grows, building and swelling, until I can’t contain it anymore, until it’s all too much, and all the tension I’ve been holding in since Julian overwhelms me and I break, free-falling, cascading, spiralling, collapsing into an abyss of pleasure. My mind is obliterated, blank, owned by sensation alone. Tears leak from my eyes, cries pour from my mouth as I convulse against Abay’s fingers. My body beads with sweat, glistening. Glowing. Beating. Shaking.

  The release is incredible. I lie there, blinking at the ceiling, as reality seeps slowly back.

  I look over at Abay. He’s smiling – a smug, self-satisfied smile. He loves the power he has over me. His dick is still rock solid, standing to attention. I catch my breath, then roll onto my side. I move towards him and take him in my mouth. He fills me – his generous girth and length swelling inside my small mouth, making me sputter and drool. It’s degrading – his dick is so far into my throat that my eyes are watering; I’m choking, my face straining, but I love it. I’m not Camilla at moments like this, I’m just a giver of pleasure, a means to an end. I feel servile. Less lethal.