I watch her truth. That's why I like looking through windows. When they don't know you're looking, that's when you see who they really are.
Watching her play with herself to thoughts of me gives me a fresh hard on. My sexual appetite is strong, usually requiring three orgasms a day just to pacify the urges. My cock is as rock hard as it was when she was sucking on it with those full lips minutes ago. I reach down, and jerk myself off in unison with her.
I time it so that when she's bucking under the touch of her gentle fingers, I'm coming to the sight of it.
She thinks she can keep secrets from me. That her act is convincing. That whole charade is for her, not me.
I see through windows. And I see who she really is.
I've decided I'll be taking fewer jobs from now on. I won't drop off the face of the earth. No, that would be too suspicious. But I have money. Family money. Work was never something I needed to do, but a strong work ethic was instilled in me and Scoot by our father. I can't just sit around. But now I have someone under my watch, someone who distracts my thoughts all day while at work. Today, when I nearly hammered a nail through my finger thinking about the sight of Vesper finger-fucking herself, and the taste of her wet cunt, I realized I can't keep burning the candle on both ends. My freedom is the most important thing, and keeping it requires precision.
I finally finish Ms. Dawkins’ new porch and head back to the farm. On my way back, I cruise along the block adjacent to Vesper’s house. There are no signs of what happened weeks ago. The crime scene tape is down. There are no patrol cars stationed outside. I make sure not to drive directly along her block, in case detectives are observing the scene in unmarked vehicles. Vesp’s still on the news, there’s still a search. But I am already seeing the signs of what people think they know: she’s dead. I don’t think they have a single clue about who took her or where to find her.
I gave Vesper enough food for a day. I've been re-feeding her. She got too thin and lost that apricot hue to her cheeks. She's been obedient. I'll give her just enough to keep her a little hungry so she stays that way.
Besides, I have a new idea of something I can give her.
I grab a cold beer from the fridge as soon as I enter the ranch and kick my feet up on the coffee table. I'm giving myself a few minutes of rest before I take care of my other responsibility. I'm always thinking about her. Always. It never stops. Even right now I want to go in there. Ever since I brought her here, it's a constant battle against immediate gratification. One I feel myself losing.
I watch my feet twitch atop the coffee table, anxious to get going on her next gift. The sugar to my salt. But I'm also dreading what I have to do to make it. It's like pulling off duct tape from someone's mouth. You can go slow, pulling every minuscule hair off their face, tugging at the skin, prolonging the suffering. Or you can do it in one harsh yank, causing a brief blaze of pain. So I go with the yank, slamming the glass bottle down on the coffee table, ringed with decades of bottle stains, and head upstairs to the room I haven't entered since my mother died.
I take a deep breath and turn the old brass knob. The hinges yawn as I push the door open. A draft of stale air blows past me as I enter. I know she's dead, but I still expect to see her, sitting in the corner like she so often did. I don't know this room any other way. Now it's just a memorial. The best and worst of her still lining these walls. She and I were rejected by our family. A shameful secret. Perfection was necessary when you carried the family name.
I don't look at anything but the things I came in for. Going into the small crafts room connected to the bedroom, I pull out her trusted sewing machine. I had watched her so many times make something out of nothing with it. Because I didn't say much, I learned to watch. To study. People. Habits. Tasks. I learned how to sew from watching her. I run my fingers along the rolls of fabric, trying to find something that matches Vesper. I regret tearing up the night dress she was wearing when I took her. It was perfect—both sexy and demure. I don't find that exact white fabric, but I find something similar, a crisp cotton fabric with a thin line of lace in the palest pink. Like the color of her pussy before I make it flush with need.
I look through patterns, hoping to find something I can work with. I find a longer dress that I can make short, just as short as the one I gagged her with. After cutting the fabric, I sit at the sewing machine, thread it, and press the pedal. That rhythmic churning fills my ears. I haven't heard it in over a year now and my thoughts drift to the past I try to forget.