by Jaden Wilkes
I get in, and I look back to see her watching me, her eyes filled with longing. She has a funny twist to her lips, almost sardonic. I wave, she waves back and the car pulls away. I give the driver my address just a few blocks away, and watch the people rushing along the sidewalk, thinking the entire time about the smell of cigarettes and cheap booze with the pinch of angry fingernails.
*****
At home I surprise the housekeeper. I have her in once a week because, quite frankly, I’m a pig. I hate cleaning, and why should I have to? I’ve always had a privileged lifestyle, and now on my own, why should I waste my time with menial tasks such as scrubbing my piss from the toilet?
Lucky for me, my father was as good at business as he was at fucking his secretaries. Which is very, in case you didn’t catch that.
I don’t know this girl, she’s one the agency sent over. They’re getting progressively uglier and uglier, probably because I keep fucking them. They act offended, as though I’m suggesting they’re an escort service, but they love to take my money.
This one is Chinese, and barely speaks English. She’s kind of cute in that terrified little mouse from the farm way. I could fuck her because I think she’d cry rivers of tears as I tore into her.
I don’t though; I’m too wound up from this afternoon.
I just want to wash my face, pour myself a tumbler of good scotch, sit on the balcony and watch the clouds go by.
My apartment is on the nineteenth floor of a modern glass and metal high-rise overlooking Burrard Inlet. I’m in Coal Harbour and have a decent view of the world from up here. I’m one level below the penthouse, and probably could have bought it if some rich asshole from out of country hadn’t snatched it up ahead of me.
My space is good though. I don’t need much to keep me happy. Just enough to impress when people visit, and not so large I’m on edge when I’m here alone.
I stroll past the new girl as she vacuums under the sofa. She’s got an ok ass. Maybe next time I’ll be in the mood to break her in, but not now.
I throw my suit jacket on the bed in my master and unbutton my dress shirt. I loosen my belt and walk into the en suite to splash some water on my face and hydrate my skin. I have a very particular skin care routine, and I notice if I don’t stay on top of keeping things in line.
I reach down and open one of the drawers expecting to find some rolled white face clothes. I find a super large box of extra absorbent Tampax.
I shut the door and open it again, as if I can’t believe my eyes. As if I’m hoping it’s like one of those old plastic magic tricks you sometimes got as a kid. You know the ones, you put a coin in, slide the box shut and the coin disappears. I open it again and this coin hasn’t disappeared. The box of tampons is still there.
“Miss, could you come in here please?” I yell at the girl in the living room. “Miss!”
I must have yelled loud enough to get her attention, the vacuum switches off and she shuffles in. Her uniform is ill fitting, as though she were an afterthought. Somebody’s ugly cousin thrown into the mouth of the dragon, knowing he would reject her. She looks at me expectantly, not noticing the tampon box in my hand.
“Are these yours?” I ask and thrust the box towards her. She looks confused, nervous and gives me a hesitant smile. “Are these yours?” I ask again, but she doesn’t answer me.
Finally it’s as though a light bulb goes off, she smiles and says, “Miss, for the miss.”
“There is no ‘Miss’ living here,” I spit out, “Whose are they?”
She smiles again and reaches out her hand. She takes them from me and gestures to the open drawer, as if to put them back. I push them away from me and shove them back towards her. Her face crumples as though she’s about to cry, but she doesn’t. She takes them and backs away from me.
“Throw them in the trash,” I tell her and close the door as she leaves. She seems jumpy and a little out of sorts. I might have to report her behaviour to the agency. I don’t think the tampons are hers though, most likely the last girl who was working for me.
I lean in to the mirror and stare at my face, my skin. I can see my pores. I need to exfoliate. I’m a guy’s guy, obviously into women more than most, but I like having nice skin. You see so many men at the gym working out hours a day, but they have shitty skin. Leather handbag texture, premature aging, and acne...or even worse, backne.
I stare into my own bright blue eyes long enough I almost don’t recognize myself. You know when you look at a word on the page, I mean really look at it, it suddenly loses all meaning? That’s how it is looking in the mirror. Intellectually I know everything is in the right spot, square jawline, deliberate stubble, carefully arranged hair...but stare long enough and something seems off.
I reach for the cleanser, squeeze a small amount into the palm of my hand. I rub until it foams and cover my face with it, feel it lift away the pollution of the day. My phone buzzes a message on the counter next to me but I ignore it.
With the cleanser on my face, life feels balanced again. There is something comforting about this routine. I’ve done it hundreds of times before, and I know what to expect.
I rinse off, apply toner, let it dry, and moisturize. I re-examine my face in the mirror and things look right again. I don’t know what brought about the earlier episode of...I don’t know what to call it, personal discordance.
The tampons still bother me though; I hate the thought of one of those girls pawing through my things, inserting herself in my space. I shake off this sense of discordant identity and head out of the bedroom.
In the kitchen the new girl is on her knees in front of the refrigerator. She does have a decent ass, but nothing about this day feels right, so I ignore her. I go to the balcony and lay back on a lounge chair to enjoy the evening breeze. I remember I have a message waiting. I tap in my access code and listen. A breathy female voice says, “Hey Alexandre, where are you? You haven’t been returning my calls, I miss you.”
The number is not entered in my phone and I don’t recognize it. I save the message and listen to it again. I can’t quite pinpoint the voice, but I think I might know it. Something is triggered in the back of my head, but it’s elusive. It slips away like a little fish from my grasp, back into the dark recesses of my mind.
I listen again, and again the flash of the belly of a fish at the surface that disappears as quickly as it arrives.
Who is this? I decide to ignore it and attempt to relax, but I’m too edgy. The fucking tampons, the voice on the phone, the weirdness in the mirror. I don’t know what it is and I can’t put my finger on it, but I need a drink.
Going back inside, I am pleased that the cleaner is gone. I can’t see anyone right now, I need to decompress and settle my head.
I pour a good scotch and rummage around my kitchen pill cabinet. One of the perks of being in “the biz” is that pharmaceutical reps drop off samples for us to distribute to our patients. Yeah right, I can’t think of a single Doc that doesn’t take the good stuff home. I would hand this shit out on Christmas to all my closest friends if they didn't have as much as I do already.
I choose a Xanax, bright blue, the colour of my eyes. Classic, simple, reliable...apropos.
I down a couple with a sip of scotch and walk to my bedroom.
Halfway there I need to check the front door, to make sure it’s locked. It is. I turn back to the bedroom and think about those fucking tampons again. I wonder if the girl took them with her or threw them in the trash. I head into the kitchen and look under the sink. They aren’t there. She must have taken them.
The sun is going down by the time I sit on the edge of my bed, finish off my scotch and listen to the message again. I think I can hear laughter in the background, a woman with a very loud voice. Possibly part of a crowd, I don’t know. I decide to fall back onto the mattress and see if anything comes to me as I allow the Xanax to course through my veins.
Nothing.
Darkness.
Cigarettes long red fingernails.
I fall.
Wednesday, April 2nd 8:00AM - Beatrice
Beatrice is my front desk girl. And by girl I mean she’s old enough to be my mother. She likes me though, she babies me and treats me like a son ever since the first day I hung up my shingle two years ago. She’s like a caricature of a secretary. Dumpy, carefully coiffed hair, perfectly applied lipstick, eyeglasses hanging from a gold chain around her neck...and more than a couple cats at home judging by the hair on her coat.
I share my practice, therefore Beatrice, with five other Psychologists. It’s a handy arrangement, there are so many people coming and going that nobody is going to notice a few sobbing girls with anguished looks on their faces running from my space.
I have the office at the back. Before I even started, I had an inkling of what I’d get up to. I had customized soundproof panels installed, and asked for the empty space between myself and the next doctor to be left empty. For the sake of my emotionally fragile patients, I plead, but in reality you and I know the reason I need this privacy. We know what I like to do.
I like to milk them of their emotions, to feed on their trauma and pain like some kind of vampire, inducing pathos instead of sucking blood.
It’s been rather successful thus far and nobody suspects a thing. Not my other patients—the ones in the program believe they are special—not my colleagues, not Beatrice.
She’s here to tell me something important before I begin my day. This will probably have something to do with the coffee maker in the break room or a new photocopier. Some office drama that exists several layers below my perception but consumes her entire world.
I indicate for her to take a seat in the chair across the desk from me. She does.
“So what is this about, Bea?” I ask and lean back, hands folded behind my head. She beams at my little pet name for her.
“We’re getting a new girl, did you know that?” she replies.
“No, I did not know that, when does she start?” I ask politely, not really giving a fuck.
“This morning at ten,” she replies, sits up straight and picks an invisible piece of lint off her sleeve. “I hired her myself,” she continues, the pride echoing in her voice, “I’ll be training her over the next few days. I want to make sure you knew, in case you came in looking for me.”
That would never happen, it had never happened, but it made her feel important to let me know the small details, such as the fact that she hired the girl and is training her. “Excellent, thank you for letting me know,” I tell her, and hope my admiration and smile is enough, that she’ll leave. I value my quiet mornings and resent the intrusion.
“Well, I know how particular you are, is all,” she says and stands up.
I stand as well and watch her leave. “Thank you,” I call to her as she shuts the door with a smug grin on her face.
This little change around the office just means that Beatrice is going to be extending her reach. She will most likely be in earlier, having somebody to cover her in the afternoons now. This disturbs me; I rather enjoy an hour or so in the mornings before the rest of the office arrive. It soothes me to be alone in the silence, settling the whispers in my head and focusing on the patients for the day.
Today is generally uneventful until later. Wednesdays always are...the usual pitter-patter of sad and pathetic waifs sliding through my fingers until three in the afternoon. Three o’clock is reserved for my special girl, the very first; the one I crossed the line with that fateful afternoon just over a year ago.
Anna. Sweet, innocent Anna. So damaged and so delicious I was unable to resist drawing her into my web, and now we were both quite stuck.
You see, during my practicum at a women’s rape relief shelter in East Vancouver, I’d devised an alternative treatment for women who are dealing with post assault trauma.
I believe that if you take a woman and subject her to similar events repeatedly, eventually she will be able to stand up, take control and overcome the initial event.
It seems to be working, a little too well in Anna’s case. We’ve gone on too long; ultimately I believe I should have been able to offer her some form of repair within six months of treatment. Six months, once a week, twenty-four or so visits, give or take a couple. Anna’s been seeing me for double that time, but I seem to have become caught up in this as much as she is.
It’s not emotional; I wish it were. That would be easier to sever. It’s a physical addiction, a biological response to her perfect body, the noises she makes when I fuck her, the feel of her hot velvety cunt gripping my cock.
It’s physical, and how do you quit something that feels so damn good? There’s no patch for the power of a pussy. There’s no twelve step program for obsessing over the perfect little rosebud shaved cunt of a desperate girl in need.
Anna’s particular trauma may have something to do with it, if I’m being completely honest with myself. She was diddled by her dad the entire time she was growing up. Saying she has daddy issues is like saying the Titanic had mechanical issues. No, she has a gigantic fucking iceberg of daddy problems that slammed into her one day smack dab in the middle of her PhD program. She’s in the Philosophy department at Simon Fraser University, not exactly the kind of field that’s equipped to handle the shit she’s going through.
That’s the other thing; Anna’s smart. And I’m a bit of a sapiophile. It’s the perfect combination. I get to force her to suck my cock and call me Daddy, spank her ass and finger her cunt while she talks in a little girl’s voice, then we are able to discuss the finer points of post modern expressionism as it pertains to a current art exhibit in the VAG.
She’s almost everything I would need in a woman.
Almost.
The problem is that I don’t need a woman. My body needs hers, but my heart...I don’t know if I have one.
Anna’s convinced I do, even though she knows shit about the field of psychology. She’s a brilliant girl, but Philosophy and Psychology are two different animals, and no matter how hard she fights for it, she’ll never find my heart.
Sociopaths rarely have them.
I’m sure I did at one point, I can remember days in my youth when things felt so consuming or amazing or devastating that I would laugh or smile or weep like a little bitch. Somewhere along the line, I lost it. I’m sure if I tried, I could determine what lead to the death of my emotions, but at this point I’m rather pleased with this state of being most of the time.
Red lipstick pinching fingernails fist to the face fear love hate fear.
Especially now that I have discovered the delicious addiction of making women cry. Sex, emotions, tears, it’s all enough for now.
For now. Anna makes me wonder if “for now” is enough though. It’s never enough. For that reason I have to end it with her. Today. I am going to end it today.
Three o’clock comes too quickly and she looks too incredible for me to pass up one last fuck. She’s wearing a schoolgirl’s skirt with knee high white socks and cute, flat black patent leather shoes. She slips out of her raincoat, a goddess with her gorgeous round breasts stretching against the fabric of the white blouse. Her hair is thick and blonde, curly without being out of control. Everything about her is in control now; I’ve done such a good job on her.
“You’re right on time,” I say and shut the door behind her. She whirls, a broad grin on her face and does a small curtsy.
“What do you think? It’s for our one year, you know,” she announces. Her cheeks are flushed red and her eyes are shining with excitement.
“You look delicious, as usual,” I tell her. I’ll keep the big announcement for after our session, when she’s sitting on the couch with my seed leaking out of her, freshly fucked. There’s something absolutely intoxicating about a girl filled with lust, tears of desperation spilling down her cheeks and cum spilling from her cunt.
“I know,” she replies and giggles, “I wanted to look delicious for you Alexandre. Doctor.”
I stride to the c
ouch and sit, pat my lap and say, “Come here, have a sweet, my baby doll.”
She squirms and walks towards me, her hips swinging and her eyes shining bright. “Yes, Daddy,” she says and pushes her lips into an exaggerated pout. She settles in on my thigh, straddling my leg and crushing her cunt against my suit pants.
“Have you been a naughty girl this week?” I ask and run my hand up and down her back. I can feel her tense as I drop it lower, just above the waist of her skirt.
“I have,” she answers with that little pout drives my body crazy. I untuck the back of her blouse and slide my hand upwards. She’s not wearing a bra and my cock hardens at the thought of freeing her tits and pushing her face down onto it.
I want to take it slow though, savour this last time with her. “What sorts of naughty things have you been up to, baby doll?” I whisper harshly in her ear. I grab a handful of hair and hold her tight against me.
“I’ve thought about you, Daddy,” she says and wiggles against my hard-on.
“What did you think about?” I ask and squeeze a handful of her ass. It’s firm but pliable, like a perfectly ripened fruit. If I were a cannibal, I would carve a juicy steak from each cheek and devour it as she watched.
Lucky for her, I’m not a psychopath; I’m just a run of the mill harmless sociopath. Physically harmless at least, I’ve never even hit a woman. I am emotionally dangerous, but she doesn’t know this. Yet.
“I thought about your fat cock inside of my tight little pussy,” she pouts and wiggles her ass against my thigh. “I’ve thought about drinking your cum, Daddy, having you fuck my ass and push my face into the pillow. Punish me for being such a dirty little slut.”
“There’s my girl,” I tell her and take her face in one hand. She’s beautiful and intelligent, but too fucking comfortable for this to ever continue. I give it a squeeze, push her cheeks together and give her fish lips, like a schoolyard bully. Tears spring to her eyes and alarm reads on her face.
“What are you doing?” she gasps and pulls away. My fingerprints are red against the white flesh of her cheek.