Invasion (9 page)

Instead I taste her – everywhere. Sucking her skin, fondling her nipples, and am inordinately pleased that a comatose woman can get hard for me.

Coming up to her face to taste her lips, my muscles seize. There are still tears stuck to her eyelashes. I trace down with my gaze, seeing the droplets on her blue kimono, staining the satin darker.

Then I glance at the TV, at the endless christmas shit spewed out to remind single folks without families what they’re missing, and lose the boner.

No wonder she took all those pills. The entire world should be ashamed that their traditions do nothing but rub salt in endlessly weeping wounds, creating pustules that become emotional cancer.

Carefully covering her I return her modesty, ashamed too that I took advantage of a woman who couldn’t fight back. She deserves more. I know. I know everything, Carly.

I’m sorry, Pixie.

Tenderly I press a chaste kiss to her lips, and escape to my den of inequity.

I don’t sleep. I can’t. Worry for her wellbeing weevils through me.

Lying in the dark listening, waiting for her to wake, to move, to go upstairs to bed, I’m driving myself crazy. I don’t even have the balls to risk dinner upstairs, so snack on my supply of breakfast bars and pecans.

The birds chirp, faraway traffic starts to filter through the silence, the distant muted patter of joggers in the early morning running in the freezing cold because they’re zombies following the social code of conduct.

The first time I’m aware of my tension is when it leaves me. Water gushes along the pipes. A toilet flushing.

Carefully I tiptoe up the steps to the basement door, putting my ear to it, listening like a doctor with a stethoscope.

It’s completely soundless down here so I gingerly open the door, peeking through the pinstripe gap into her world. Silence.

Treading with caution and stealth I enter the kitchen, listening intently, following her path, first checking the lounge, then go to the bottom of the staircase leading up to the bedrooms.

The faintest buzz penetrates the quietude.

When she starts moaning with ecstasy, the buzz betraying her activity, I know what she’s doing. I wish I could see it, but memories will have to suffice.

She’s okay. She made it through her pill induced slumber.

Returning to my bed, ensuring no matter when she comes in I’ll remain well hidden and camouflaged, I wrap her panties over my nose.

Spitting on my hand I stroke myself.

It’s quick, ripe for bursting, when I hear the shriek from her upstairs, a real screamer orgasm with a pitch that penetrates two concrete floors. It’s the breath to tip the scales and I groan, spewing jizz into her panties swiftly shoved to catch the mess.

Shuddering, my heart jackhammering, I smile.

She’s home.

I’m home.

If I leave you broken
I can mend you whole.

Rage is a brute best fed after dark.

You didn’t ask for it

I’m just generous that way

M
y internal alarm clock verves before the sun. The fetid odor of the basement plugs my sinus, the asylum of my new home makes me smirk as the screeches and settling of my house lulls in my auricles, singing me a tune of pining and fascination.

I sit and wait, counting until 3,077. I hear her feet hit the carpet of her bedroom, her mellifluous soles tickling the fibers beneath her. I started to rearrange items she uses daily, to get a rise out of her, to test her mind and make her think. Her stability will be tried. Anxiety will come nearer and fright will set in. That is just as enticing as her pierced twat and round tits.

Thinking of her insentient, splayed out so defenseless, melancholy fills me up with many avenues of intrigue. Lust and aching. Amplified mania and a mawkishness I can’t quite put my finger on.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five
. By ten steps she will get to the bathroom and notice her night cream, now mixed with my semen, is no longer beside her morning exfoliating wash. Her toothbrush, which is always in the middle of the hole of the holder, will be lying down on its side in the medicine cabinet. Her floss will be on the counter, not positioned beside her toothpaste.

I smile yet again, my eavesdropping piqued. I pick up water filling the pipes. Her morning piss is always the first thing she does. Sometimes she cries beforehand, then washes her face. Next she applies her makeup. I wish she didn’t. She has so much to natural potential. I snoop keenly, probing to hear if the sporadic daybreak cries will be resonated down the floors, echoing in my brain as I bargain with myself for reasons to linger hidden.

It leaves me high, raiding her life, learning every facet, every deep, dark corner that no one else knows. It’s addicting, deliciously devious and miraculously entertaining.

When the time is right, I will go to her and turn her world upside down. Every button of hers, I will push. I know the ins and outs of Carly. What makes her dejected and livid. How to make her cum harder than a garden hose, and what brand of cabernet she prefers.

I will be the picture-perfect kind of man for her.

She isn’t crying this morning as the lid of the toilet closes.

One. Two. Three. Four.
By six steps, she reaches the sink to open the medicine cabinet to retrieve her toothbrush. My heart hastens, gathering she will soon recognize her personal belongings have been moved. Her soundness will be probed and her stomach will contract. Adrenaline will release as she considers the need for fight or flight, but she will rationalize, because the bogeyman isn’t real. But he is. I am real, and living in her basement, listening to her, studying her, praising her, cumming with her when she rides her rabbit and cuts her cunt.

The Bogeyman
is
real.

I hear a crash, the disorder of bottles and potions colliding reverberates as the medicine cabinet slams shut. Carly runs out of her bathroom and into her room.

One. Two. Three
. By fifteen she will make her way to the hook on the back of the bedroom door to fetch her bathrobe. She, on no occasion, leaves her chamber without it in the mornings. I wonder if she is too fretful to grab it before heading downstairs.

I grin. By fifteen steps, she reaches her door. Again, I rely exclusively on my hearing, her treads become firm as she swings her bedroom door ajar, rasping loud throughout the stagnant dwelling. She really needs to put some WD40 on that hinge so it stops doing that. I make a mental note to fix it after I invade her life, literally. Her light footfalls tap down the stairs, her breathing is intoxicating.

“Mom? Are you here?” she calls out.

She’s talking to her dead mother, she must be fraught. Ghosts, though deceptively real in some people’s eyes, are not a form of pragmatism.

“This isn’t funny, Mom. My things are being messed with. If this is your idea to let me know you aren’t pleased with my life, I get it, okay? I get it!”

I drop the audibility of my exhalations to prep my ascension up the stairs to sneak a glimpse of her; to transport myself cerebrally into the mind of Carly. I know if I put my feet on steps four, six, and ten, that I will not be heard. After making my way up further, exhilaration envelops me.

The aroma of her tears, the aftereffects of her midnight fucking session with the rabbit dildo she keeps in her bedside table, is delectable to my overactive senses. The salty combination causes me to unobtrusively lick my lips.

I can sense her distress, how she feels as though she botched her life. How can a creature as magnificent as her feel in such a way? My mind cannot wrap around the contemplation while I continue to pry, heeding to the frantic supplications only I can hear. I will save her soon. Very soon.

“I’ve been hurt, Mom. None of this is my fault! I just want to be loved!”

I hear a crash. She crumples to the ground, the cool marble tiles beneath her warm skin sending curses up her spine.

Her weeping, whispered entreaties, linger as her hands shield her face. I’m taking a chance, a big chance as I crack the door to catch a peek of the Pixie princess. She’s abashed. Humiliated due to the life she has led. I still, for the life of me, cannot fathom why. She aids women who are victims of sex trafficking. She is submissive which makes me hard, and self-loathing which makes me sick. Carly needs to be loved while feeling supportable, indulging in her dark longings. You don’t have to be treated like shit to be loved like that.

I watch, her hands leave her face, now mottled from tears and resentment. They rapidly descend, pounding onto the hard ground. Her white fluffy bathrobe opens. She’s nude underneath. Her breasts are visible, nipples rigid from the warmth she craves.

Her thighs, slightly parted, give me full view of her pierced pussy, the sparkling stud shines like a smuggler’s signal. It’s captivating, taking every goddamn ounce of self-control I have not to run to her. To take her face between my hands and lick her tears away. To kiss her mouth reverently, so much so she overlooks every pain she suffered before. I want to become one and only with her, however corny that sounds, and live there perpetually. Penetrating my fingers in her wet snatch, I’d take them out as her eyes regarded mine, petitioning me for more, watching me place them in my mouth, suckling them clean. I take a cavernous gasp and Carly stills, fearful to look anywhere besides forward.

Fuck! I have cocked this up beyond measure. I’ve blown my cover. I go into reccie mode with a full wood, soundlessly closing the crack of the door, then pacing down the steps that won’t give me away, descending back down to my solitary confinement. My lungs are tight, holding inhalations until I’m assured I haven’t been discovered. I’m the buried treasure, and when the time is right, she will discover me.

I crawl atop the grit, the rough cement from the basement floor scraping over my skin until I reach my living area behind the boxes. I continue to listen, but a void is all I hear. I huddle beneath the blanket, eyes squeezed shut so hard my skin is pulled tight and my forehead pains.

My head starts throbbing, hurting with worry that I have fucked this up. I listen, but discern nothing. Has she called the police? Is my life over before it merely started? I scream loudly on the inside, my heart abounding with indignation, the neurons of my brain functioning in overdrive, combatting with one another as I try to regain control.

Something tells me, despite my amnesic life as I know it, that I am not a man who loses his cool under pressure. I have yet to properly meet this woman and she is driving me mad. I fear of what may come, how I will conduct myself.

I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them snugger as reflections of her chained to a dog leash skulk up my spine, itching the mania that hovers, threatening to detonate. Before I understand, my actuality turns murky. I am welcomed with the hallucinations of who I was.

It’s hot and dusty, brown particles float through the air creating the illusion of a tornado in mid-desert. The sun shines against my skin, kissing it with warmth, causing sweat to film over my contoured physique. Every outline of my muscle flexes as I pull, my hand grasping onto a rusted metal chain.

I continue gazing forward, a dilapidated dwelling is before me with several men outside sporting topis. Black specs cover their eyes, leaving a gap for their noses and a mystery for their demeanor. Their black and white jamas are dusted with sand, tinted brown and no longer clean. All the men have guns clasped in their hands, their sun-kissed bronze complexion absent and pale from the tension of their hold.

I continue tugging, relentlessly pulling on something heavy. My ears are muted, the wind ferocious against my membrane. I jerk up the black scarf shielding my mouth from the grains coiling in the wind and shove my sunglasses up the bridge of my slick nose. My eyes, on target, seem primed for peril.

My heart is decelerated, the rhythmic beats so low that even a jaguar wouldn’t be able to hear me. The brain within my skull is conditioned for this meeting, my forebrain exercising faultlessly, sending messages to my medulla oblongata.

Without thought my strides remain the same, each step is executed with intent. My power is palpable. I’m a hazard to these men, six to be exact. They carry weapons while I have my fists.

Seconds later, I stand before the tall one in the middle, the hair on his upper lip beneath his nose is faded from black, speckled with gray and dusted with dirt from the unforgiving Pakistani wind. My body has done this before. Many times before. I feel a pop in my ears, the whoosh of the tornado-like wind around me tunnels down my ear canal, pinging off my tympanic membranes. I stare into the black frames of the man I assume is the leader. Waiting for him to communicate, I maintain my stance, towering and authoritative, my grip taut on the corroded metal chain without concern.

“You bring all of them?” he asks, the muffled sound resounds beneath the cloak that covers most of his face, aside from his nose.

“Yes.”

My response is short and curt. To the point and perfunctory. I am a no-bullshit kinda dude. My breathing is humid under the scarf. I drop my inhalation pattern to accommodate accordingly as the leader’s glower slopes deeper into me. He strains, but fails petulantly to get a rise. Men like me can’t be affected.

“Extra 100-k, American Dollars, for virgin.”

His broken English makes me cringe. I may be able to go weeks without showering, forced to shit in the middle of the desert, but fucking hell, I can speak thirteen languages. I never let people know that. I allow them to assume I am a grunt, an about to be a thirty-four year old man who served on the lines and moved up. You know the saying, ignorance is bliss.

“She’s here.” Again, my reply is concise and to the point. I abruptly sense attachment to this rusted chain, I clutch a little tighter. The grit scratches my palms, the heat of my blood oozing out and bathing the metal. Still, I feel zilch as my eyes focus forward.

“Inside. I look at girls.”

The leader of the six walks inside a dilapidated hut-like structure (what the fuck are Pakistani sheds called?). Dark and humid, only shadows persist and the motes and particles that were so concentrated outside dance in the air gracefully, not knowing what is before them.

I turn on myself, a coward to the cause. My strength betrays me, arms flexing up to my shoulder until a squeal similar to a dying pig creeps through the air, ringing my ears, endeavoring to split my conscience. I don’t think I was born with one. I don’t think I was ever born at all…