It’s my post-kill ritual. The only thing that comes close to cleansing whatever is left of a conscience. Or maybe it just keeps the moral rot from spreading.
Either way, I need it.
Six weeks of planning and forty-eight hours to strike. Now there’s space to breathe.
I earned this downtime between jobs. Between blood.
And this time, I refuse to waste it. No scanning burner phone messages. No diving into the dark web.
That world can wait.
Because I’m thinking about her.
Laurette.
She is an undertow, and I’m already being dragged deeper with every breath. Today, I stop resisting.
I don’t step outside again. Instead, I let my favorite songs loop through the house while I feed myself more fragments. Press releases. Trial footage. Court transcripts. Tagged photos.
Her name becomes a drum in my skull. Every mention cataloged, every photo opened, every frame combed.
Seether’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” plays while I drag every scrap I can find into desktop folders.
Screenshots. Archives. Nothing escapes.
Eventually, I print—matte—because I fucking hate fingerprints. One by one, four-by-sixes with clean, sharp edges go up. Laurette at a press conference, shoulders squared, narrow hips set in defiance. Another catches her mid-argument in court, a navy linen suit slicing through the blur of bodies. And another laughing with friends, head tipped back, completely unguarded. That one I had to work for. I poached it from a friend’s account since Laurette’s profile is set to private.
Smart girl.
The collection isn’t complete, but it’s a start. Enough to study and memorize.
My pulse hammers as I lean in, fingers hovering—then closing the distance. I drag the pad of my finger along her jaw and imagine her taste, the warmth of her breath, the way she’d flinch… or melt.
This isn’t enough. Ineed more.
My favorite photo is a press conference shot. Her face is turned just enough to bare the clean line of her throat, mouth, and a fire in her eyes.
I reach into my gray sweats and take out my cock, already hard, already leaking.
I drag the tip across her lips in the photo, smearing pre-cum over matte paper. “Look at those lips. That mouth. I bet it’d look even better stretched around my cock, drooling while I fuck your throat.”
Her image bends under the weight.
“I want you choking on my dick, tears streaming down your cheeks, while I call you my good little girl.”
My fist tightens around the base, my thumb dragging through the slick fluid at the tip before I stroke again. Slow at first, while I savor the thought.
“I’d spend all night filling you up—mouth, cunt, ass—until you’re leaking me from every hole.”
I pump harder, faster now, the sound obscene in the quiet room. My grip turns punishing, knuckles whitening as I imagine her mouth opening, her breath hitching, her body yielding the way I want it to.
“I’ll fuck you with your legs over my shoulders while I spit in your mouth and call you daddy’s favorite toy.”
The words tear out of me as pleasure coils tight and violent in my gut. My hips jerk into my fist, every stroke fueled by the image of her losing control, wanting me as much as I want her.
My breath goes ragged, and my vision narrows. Everything about her pulls me closer to the edge.
“Beautiful Laurette. You don’t know it yet, but you’re mine.”
