But I don't care about any of that. I've heard and seen what happened over and over again.
All that matters is that photo.
Skyler Beltran and Cormac Fomori at the SOEM Benefit, October 13th, 2021.
All but throwing my phone to the side, I type in the date, hoping to god above that it'll gain me access to the part of my past I've been too afraid to look into before.
If the physical photos I have are anything to go by, the contents of this computer are going to be dastardly.
That beautiful, swirling loading rainbow appears, the first glimmer of hope I've felt in weeks.
And when it loads, the slow drawl of a sleepy electronic that hasn't been used in months drags on for ages, my fingers dancing impatiently on the desktop.
Finally.
Several browser tabs autoload all at once.
One is a mirror ofsomething.Someone else's computer or phone, maybe?
And the others...
My stomach drops and my heart stutters.
There she is.
Sprawled across her couch, her little laptop perched on a couch cushion.
No wonder it felt so natural to let myself into her home.
I've been doing it long enough that I have three camera angles and a mirroring app installed on her personal computer.
I can see the entire living room and kitchen. There's not a single corner of her living space that isn't bared to me.
Including the decadent view of her, comfortably splayed on the dark green couch, lying on her stomach in patterned pink pajamas. The shorts are just a bit longer than I'd like them to be, almost giving me a glimpse of the crease where her plump, full ass meets those thick, strong thighs.
Her shirt rides up just to the curve of her spine, and I crave to run my tongue along the soft lines of her curves, to dig my fingers into her warm skin and grip her in place while I torment her with my tongue.
Disgusted at myself, I place my hands on the desk, hoping to push myself away from the depravity of my thoughts.
This is the work of a sick, disturbed individual.
But the excitement crawling under my skin stops me from running. Despite my own objections, Iknowthis is who I am. This is what I've done in the quiet hours of my life when I wasn't running a business or killing and exposing the monsters in our society.
How many hours have I spent right here, just watching her exist?
How many nights have I stalked her from the shadows whilesheentersmyworld of depravity?
And why the fuck haven't I done anything about it sooner?
As her delicate fingers drift across the mousepad, my mirroring browser moves in sync.
A zip of bliss runs up my spine as she clicks on the search bar of her browser.
The last ten things she searched have all been aboutme.
A normal man might think that it makes perfect sense. Ididjust break into her home and not-so-subtly threaten her. Of course she wants to know who I am and just how dangerous I am.
But my dark instinct tells me it's something more.
