by Jay Kerk
I always put an old, leaking shower head on for new tenants, with these tricks I’d build initial trust.
“I’ll install a new one. No charge, of course.”
“Okay, great.” She came out of the bedroom with her handbag, from which a laptop protruded, and a generously sized phone or perhaps a tablet in hand.
“How are you going, miss? By car or foot?” I asked.
The question surprised her, but I already knew the answer. “I’m walking. It’s very close. Right?” Oh man, what a generation. Equipped with all the zebibytes in the world, and they still trusted word-of-mouth. This was beyond self-doubt, this was stupidity.
“Yeah, just stay on main streets. Don’t go into alleyways,” I used my deep voice; I sounded like Batman.
She grabbed the doorknob. “Sure. See ya later.”
“Do you have your key?” I asked. She checked the inside pocket of her handbag.
“Yes,” she said, taking out the key not on a keychain.
“I have your second key in case you want to give someone a copy. Take this one with the key chain and give me yours,” I said. The keychain was a triangle made of rigid plastic but the corners were movable, so it was also a toy. I played with it, and we made the exchange.
“I know no one yet, but I feel lucky,” she said and winked at me. I disregarded it, remaining professional. But I couldn’t wait to know if she was attracted to men or women, or both. There was no way of knowing nowadays. I put her down as straight, but she probably hadn’t experienced her full sexual potential.
The extra key I gave her had a live satellite GPS tracking chip in the key chain. The battery could not last forever but enough to provide me with a head start.
“Wait, miss, take my cellular phone number,” No one used this term anymore, but once you said it, people assumed you were of a particular age and belonged to a specific era. This stereotype was what I aimed for.
“Hit me,” she said. She was shaking her head, secretly laughing.
I gave her the number. The timing was important. I took out my flip phone, and the sight of the device amazed her.
“Wow, gosh.” She chuckled, and it became laughter. She covered her gaping mouth with her left hand. Oh goodness, the energy that young people had. “You own one of those? I gotta take a selfie with this shit,” she said.
She was an adolescent transitioning to adulthood, and I was fascinated how she reacted to trivial things. Small things matter.
Her laughter was my cue to start my act. I looked down at the floor and frowned as if I felt hurt and disrespected.
“Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. But really, this shit is swag.”
My phone vibrated. I showed her, and she confirmed her number. “And do you have your landlord’s number?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered. I turned around and entered the kitchen as she uttered the word, but I saw she had blushed. She was embarrassed for having hurt me.
I heard the door close, and I began to work. In an hour, I finished everything: seven planted secret cameras switched on and streaming live to my house, plus new cameras in the entrance light, kitchen fire alarm, living room ceiling light, a receiver under the TV, fire alarm over the bed, plastic plant on the bookshelf facing the bed, and last but not least, the bathroom. Full views from every corner.
For $3,200, one could order the spy cameras online, and they would arrive at your doorstep, or you could do what I did to avoid leaving an electronic trail. I drove 500 miles to buy them in cash, undetected and untraceable. The drive wasn’t so bad. I’d taken Nellie with me. She thought the breeze helped her.
I remembered when I’d started with one camera. I used to worry less about the risk of exposure. Silly me—it didn’t matter if they caught you with one or fifty cameras, the punishment was the same. Now the manufacturers tested the secret cameras by seeing if members of the public could find where they were hidden. Market research was part of the sales pitch.
I replaced the shower head with the semi-new one I’d brought with me.
I set everything and including the clock and the poster, but before I left, I copied her class schedule and looked in the safe. (I had a spare key for every lock in this apartment, including the safe.) A few hundred-dollar bills, one debit card, one credit card, and a passport. I took photos of the documents, might need them in the future.
Afterward, another part of the hunt began with the drawers. Pandora’s box. I applied extra care in this task because everything had to go back in place and look untouched. The dresser gave me nothing major, but I enjoyed going through the panties and bras. A few were worn out, and I smelled them just in case, but they were all clean, fresh from the laundry. I had big hopes for Laurie. We would achieve a lot together.
The closet contained the regular variety of what a woman owned, but I noted two more handbags.
Now the bedside drawers. My heart was racing. What could be in there? Jackpot! There was a sex toy. A two-headed device with multiple vibration options. Did owning the device mean she wasn’t a virgin? Seemingly, but I couldn’t be sure. I registered the toy’s exact location, took the dildo out with a napkin, and smelled it. Although clean, it still had a faint smell of her wet endeavors. It was important that she owned one—it meant we didn’t have to wait for her to get a boyfriend to get some action.
Not all people masturbated. About a third of women and a fifth of men don’t partake at all, whereas only a tenth of all women and a quarter of all men masturbated frequently. Worthless people, void of the drive.
I couldn’t wait; the possibilities were endless.
I’d saved the best for last: the laundry basket. Yippee! We all had a mammalian instinct to smell one other, but societies had condemned it over the years. And we ended up void of any pheromones and incapable of olfactory-based attraction. What a waste. I could barely resist taking one pair of panties for my collection—a white pair with pink flamingos on it. I kept it with me in my pocket and would put it back before I left the apartment. I rubbed it on a piece of cloth to pass along the smell so I could take it with me.
My alarm sounded at half past ten. I made a quick trip to the convenience store to get her some consumables, bonding items, and some of my plan accessories, to see what she would choose.
I came back and stocked the fridge with fresh juice, water, and fruit. Mango, an aphrodisiac. On the counter, I placed a coffee blend, mixed nuts, pre-made pizza, bread, and ready-to-cook noodles.
On the coffee table, I put four used books: a famous erotic novel made into a movie that critics claimed was good and pretty rough, a self-help book about exploring one’s potential, a romance novel with adventures involving time travel and aliens, and a prominent psychologist’s biography. I wanted to know her preference.
In the second empty dresser drawer, I placed a joint in a sealed plastic bag with a note that read, “Hey there, from the old tenant to you, an offering. Left it sealed in the bag for freshness. Enjoy.” Smiley face.
I finished my sandwich and stretched out on the sofa, thinking about possible future plans for Laurie once we got the basics out of the way. I took out my electronic notepad and started drafting, I wanted to create some fresh ideas. If everything failed, then I would not have a choice but to use the roofies.
Laurie - apartment 326 - ideas:
Fear:
Is she afraid of ghosts and what is her fear limit? Make the place haunted?
Make her feel someone is following her and wants to kill her?
Hackers steal her identity: Post on her Instagram account pictures of places she went but different food. Funny.
What will her entertainment be when I cut her Internet? Old but gold.
A secret admirer: gifts and notes and a meetup plan.
Tasks: will she do weird errands for money?
Laxatives? Dull. No.
Bankruptcy? Take all her money and see what she does.
Drugs?
Suddenly I couldn’t think straight
again. The bitch psychotherapist was getting into my mind. She’d once said, “Spying is a form of attack. You’re hurting people. Would you want someone doing this to you?”
My breathing had become tense, and my rage had started building. “Well, fuck you,” I’d written back. “A prey not protecting itself deserves anything that happens to it. Banks do shit every day to millions. If anyone can spy on me, then they’re welcome to. Or at least they’re welcome to try.”
I whistled to calm myself down. I imagined myself finding out her address and going there to choke her, seeing her last breath come out. I hated the bitch so much I dreamed of sitting next to her body as it got cold. “Yeah, FUCK YOU!”
Shit, I’d shouted.
I checked the GPS signal on my phone. Laurie was in class. Soon, I’d be on her tail, seeing where she went and what she bought, whom she interacted with. I hoped she was exactly as she was on the Internet, a non-monogamist. Otherwise, I must force her out of the apartment and get someone else in.
I went back to my basement. Nellie was half asleep on the couch, and I could smell the old wine stench on her. She was in this state most of the time, drunk and high on her pills. Sometimes a day passed without us speaking to each other, and then when we did speak, it was nasty.
We were in a situation where each of us wanted the other to move out, but no one would admit it. I wanted her out of here, where my setup was. I kept crushing sleeping pills and putting them into her bottles of wine. I just bought bottles with screw caps instead of corks. She got irritable and sometimes aggressive when she wasn’t high.
I wanted to find someone like me, with my drive and passion for life. Laurie might be that person. The hunts would be more fun. I realized that even if the other person’s drive wasn’t like mine, at least having someone who believed in me could make us inseparable.
I took the cloth out of my pocket, smelled it, and jerked.
Watching from a distance still had the same excitement as before. Even if I was watching something I’d seen earlier in one way or another, seeing a new, different person gave me endless thoughts. How confident was she about herself? How frequently did she look at the mirror? Did she roam naked in her house? How and where did she eat? Did she jiggle her tits to see how they moved? How often did she masturbate? How and who did she fuck?
Like a fierce predator, I didn’t have to attack and kill every time I stalked someone. The joy came from the journey of hunting, even without the final act. Even a failed attack had its joys.
Every passing hour seemed longer than the one before it, but finally, it was almost time, almost. One more hour and she would be coming. I would go to meet her. Then I would retreat to my laptop to view her life. I was growing sick of Vicky, and I wanted to give Laurie all my time.
CHAPTER 4:
THE ONE
I was well-rested after my three hours of sleep, but little time had passed. It seemed like years had passed from dawn until seven, and Laurie was still asleep. I reorganized my folders, cleared some clutter, cleared my gonads and stored my jizz. Instead of waiting another hour for her to wake up, I made a quick trip to her building and made construction noise in front of her apartment.
The disturbance woke her up.
Afterward, I went back and positioned myself in front of my monitors, observing her. I was falling for this woman. The two weeks since she had moved in had been stunning. She’d had ten guys up to her place, and masturbated another ten times, all over the apartment. Gladly she had allowed no one to sleep over; we wanted no creeps coming between us.
I snuck in a lot, to smell her sheets and her clothes. The resemblance between us was incredible. I‘d seen nothing like it. She was the one for me. She wasn’t like the worthless ones before her who spent their time on video games, knitting, and cooking.
I found her.
She was annoyed and grumpy; she shuffled to the kitchen to make her coffee. She slept only with panties on, and sometimes without them, but she put on a cotton shirt immediately after waking up. The shirt was three or four sizes too large, probably left behind by a zealous boyfriend.
I jumped into my seat, startled by the music she’d turned on. I took out my notepad to make an important and long overdue addition to my notes that had lurked in my mind.
Of Man and Noise
Man has created a wide range of sounds and instruments throughout history, and they proved crucial for our tribe’s survival. Warriors used one variety in war, another for terrorizing their enemies, and the elite used some for stirring up sexual desire in dormant souls.
Those sounds became useless noises occupying our lives, no taste, and no end goal. Just waste, a byproduct of the worthless who roam the earth.
She took a quick shower, shaved a few hairs here and there on her arm, sniffed a bra which she ended up wearing, and off she went. I had to think of ways to keep her in the apartment. I had enjoyed following her initially, but not so much now.
I broke up with Vicky. She became too needy and attached. I’d told her I had an assignment across the state, she’d cried, and I’d comforted her by promising I would be back in two or three months. I couldn’t let go of the way we’d met and how much time it had taken for me to convince her we could have a relationship. She wanted a friend to speak to about her insecurities and what she wanted to do in life. I didn’t have time for that, but I endured to get where we were. Then the relationship slowed down and became more talking than anything else.
I put on my community guard vest. I hated how the yellow glowed in the light. I knew the whole neighborhood, who lived where and what they did, where there were street cameras, police patrols… I kept records of who moved in and out. You could never be too sure. I avoided the street where Vicky lived but didn’t worry about the school because no students would be around when I patrolled there.
I imagined coming up to Laurie, asking her out for coffee, and telling her we were alike and how compatible we are. She was one of a kind, and I believed we could have a great relationship. Soon I would confess to her. I wished she were three years younger. No, seven years younger. That would have been a dream.
She was in class and no point in waiting for her. I went to her apartment, provided a “free” subscription to the best porn channel with video on demand.
I couldn’t wait ‘til she turned the porn channel on. Perhaps this would decrease the number of visitors. I approved of her active sex life, but not of the people she selected—worthless beings. The fact of her getting pregnant by one of the scumbags frightened me.
In her mailbox, I put a magazine article that related two models talking about morning masturbation and its benefits. I’d had to search a while for them. What could I do next week? Plant microphones in her handbags? I didn’t know, so I waited to see how things played out.
Laurie was so much better than the prior, worthless tenants who’d had to start with the “benefits of sex,” “accept your sexuality,” and “embrace your body” bullshit. I went into Laurie’s bedroom. I wanted to lie in her bed and relieve myself. I imagined her walking in on me, catching me in the act. But, come to think of it again, that would end badly—for her.
Before I could finish, I heard the keys jingling.
Is this happening?
Then I heard the giggling coming from the hallway and the key turning. Shit! I hadn’t checked the GPS for the last half an hour, and she’d come back. I thought of hiding in the bathroom, but this was a common mistake made in movies. Eventually, people would go into the bathroom. I hid under the bed.
Steamy kissing. A bag dropped on the floor. A man grunted. Laurie said, “I want you right now. Give me your best.” They entered the room. Their feet looked like those of amateurs in their first dance class. He sat on the bed, and she remained standing. I’d never felt jealous of the men she brought over, but at that moment, I was boiling. Maybe because I was physically in the room, and my elite genes were firing for action.
In the old warrior days, I would have ju
mped out from under the bed and taken his life with my bare hands. And she would have been fascinated and turned on. And we would have made love over the ruins of war. These days, I had to burn and suffer.
She remained standing, and her pants dropped. I was about to faint. I was extremely horny, and I could have killed someone. She knelt down, her knees two inches away from me. I wanted to join in. Later I would see it, as many times as I desired. But at the moment how could I see them? I heard her gulping and spitting. I remembered my phones in my pocket; I checked and set both on silent mode. I opened the smartphone and logged into the streaming feed. Almost there, loading, and live.
Fuck. Mr. Frekampt. Really? They called him Mr. Freak or Mr. Freakish. He was a sad, fat, old man with a huge beer belly. Worthless. You would sleep with him? Bad choice, Laurie.
What the hell was she doing with her English teacher? Did she like him or did she need the grade? Fuck. I opened my zipper slowly.
They were both on the bed, and the supporting wood below struggled and bounced with their movement. He tried to get on top of her, a 250-pound shit barrel with hair all over his back. She didn’t allow it. She pushed him down and got on top of him.
She was loud. Too loud. She sounded fake compared to how she usually sounded. It seemed like the three of us had a synchronized orgasm, but I didn’t think so. He and I finished, and I doubted she did. Her moaning and his grunting hid my heavy breathing, but I was worried they would discover me under the bed.
He put on his clothes and mumbled, “Wow,” too many times, and she said, “Yeah, this was excellent.” His face was still so red. She made up an excuse, and he left. She turned on the shower and dialed a number. I was anxious she would look under the bed. If she caught me, I would either have to kill her, or we could start a friendship. I could explain to her my fascination with all that she did, and she would admire my effort. Could happen. And hey, such an encounter might be better than coffee.