Enough. I should have guessed, given my unusual intentions, that there would be no help for me here. Still, it's useful to know what to measure Leo's expectations against.
When my thoughts turn to Leo, they melt to greyer shades. Twist to strange shapes and swell in the heat of desire. I plug in my headphones and scroll through a favourite porn site until I find a video with a girl who is suitably similar; blond hair, tanned skin, smudgy black eyes. She doesn't moan like my Leo—Leo isn't fake—but it'll do while I'm waiting.
The girl onscreen is masturbating, almost naked, her purple thong underwear tangled around her ankles as she lies back on a pink bed. Fluffy cushions and pop posters are somehow meant to indicate that she's younger than she is. Something for the lowlife deviants. I'm too busy looking between her legs to pay attention to much else, too busy watching her fingers pump into her wet, open *.
I remember doing this to Leo, and I remember how her body went limp when she gave in and ceased resisting. I could've fucked her that night; I knew it then and I know it now. But it wouldn't have been what I wanted. There are plans to put in place and rules to make clear before I can have Leo the way that I need to, and as I stroke myself, I make a list.
Tomorrow, it starts. My backward seduction. Sharp as the blade of a razor and blunt as the first stroke of a fuck. At the end, if she's there, I'll know she wants the same things. I never did imagine such a creature; stupid of me, perhaps. But I've always been alone in my desires. There were girls like Rachel who thought they wanted my particular brand of passion until they realised exactly how much it would hurt...too late. I've been so careful since.
The girl in the video begins to come, her hips bucking, her fingers soaking wet. Soon, I'll see Leo like this; stripped down and desperate, at the mercy of my cock. My tongue.
My knife knows little mercy, but she'll get the sharp end of that, too.
***
Early the next morning, I make a phone call to a prestigious florist, who is bemused by my request but agrees to it regardless. I tell her it's for a music video and give her a fake name. She responds with an abrupt little laugh.
Then, I call the chocolatier. I have a sarcastic lover, I explain; she will appreciate his unusual efforts. He asks for twenty-four hours to complete, which I grant him.
I make a final order, online this time. Express delivery to my apartment. This one, I must finish myself.
Gifts for my special girl, one, two and three. Lingerie and flowers, indeed.
Come hunting with me, grasshoppers.
I'mma catch me a lion.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Motel in the suburbs
Aged 17
I got impatient with Rachel. Went too fast, fucked her too early, and now she won't take the cuts in the places I wanted her to.
She lies naked on the crappy motel bed, legs apart, half-obscured by the faded white sheet. Her chest rises and falls with each short, sharp breath. I've put a towel underneath her, and she's bleeding through the tape I applied to her wounds, red trails crusting her cum-stained inner thighs and matting into the cotton.
I'm trying to watch a football game on the old TV while she recovers, but all she does is talk over the fucking thing.
"Aeron?"
Without looking up, I pass her the glass—half amaretto, half Coke—but she shakes her head.
"Makes me feel sick," she whimpers.
"Suit yourself." I'd down the rest of it, but I need to drive us back.
"Aeron?"
I glance up at her. "What?"
"Is—is it meant to hurt this much?"
"Did you think that it wouldn't?"
"I thought—I thought..." Fat tears christen her cheeks. Strands of black hair stick to her sweaty forehead. "Will you help me put my panties back on?"
I peer down between her legs and inhale the scent emanating from her sticky skin: stale arousal, antiseptic, the iron edge of blood. "Why?"
"Because I can't go home without them...but I can't, I can't move properly without..."
Without disturbing her wounds.
Even in her distress, there's a softness about the way she looks at me, a hesitance that belies her feelings. I'm the star quarterback. The aloof older guy. I give her my time, my attention; I make her come; she's privileged to be here. And Rachel knows she's special in her own way, too—I could've had any dumb cheerleader on this bed and she'd probably be less of a risk, but where's the fun in that? The fight? Rachel's smart. 4.0 GPA, yearbook staff, prickly with almost everyone except me. A proper little goody two shoes—except right now. Oh, this afternoon...she's been very bad.
I'll take care of her. We love being each other's exception.
Sighing, I slip down on to the worn-out mustard carpet to find her cheap black panties. Then I sit back on the bed—the old mattress creaking toward me and causing her to wince—to lift her legs one by one. She squeals as I tug the fabric past the beautiful red murals of her inner thighs.
"Maybe you should wear bigger ones next time," I chide her. As an afterthought, I throw in a grin. She always likes those.
There will be a next time.
Rachel begins to sob.
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