posted on Oct, 16 2005 @ 06:39 PM
Please note that this story may be a little disturbing for some readers. If I could put one of those parental advice warning stickers on it, I would.
There is a knock at the door. Through the spy-hole I see a woman with a clipboard. She could be safe, but I can't be sure. Another knock - this time
more persistent - harder, more forceful. What should I do? I pace for a couple of seconds then toss a coin: heads I answer, tails I don't... the 10p
falls to the floor with the Queen in profile. I open the door.
"Hello?" I say.
"Hello, Mr. Bailey. I'm from the agency," she says looking at her clipboard. She presents me with an ID card. "May I come in please? It's
She falls to the ground, her head ripped apart by the bullet, its pathetic remains spurt with blood. I look to the warm pistol in my right hand and
grip the gun tighter. My arm aches with the joy of recoil and splattered blood covers my torso and face. Blood, glorious blood everywhere.
"Mr. Bailey? Are you listening? I said that I've come about your repayments. May I come in, please?"
"Yeah, sure. Sorry about the mess." She has a slender body for a woman her age. What is she, thirty? I can tell that she works out and she’s never
had a baby - her tummy is too flat, her breasts too plump. And she was in my house! Joy of joys! I eagerly shut the front door.
She now sits on my sofa; her beautiful curved bottom on my upholstery, rubbing from side to side, across and around trying to get comfortable, always
shifting her thighs ever so slightly. Her legs are crossed in such a professional, crisp manner that I can see her shins and no higher. Maybe her
clothes are too tight for her (a size 10 in a size 8 dress?) but her body’s hard and bursting through. She’s begging me to rip open that jacket
and get into the unseen, unsoiled skin behind her blouse. To linger in the darkness, searching for her light...
"Are you listening Mr. Bailey?"
"Yeah, sure. Look do you want a cup of coffee or something?"
"No thank you." Her voice is smooth like silk - honed with training and education and yet she lures me closer in, wrapping me in her cold, prudent
voice. Fidget, always fidgeting. She’s nervous. I lick my lips.
"Mr. Bailey, do you understand that if you do not repay your debts within the next week, your possessions will be forcibly re-taken? There is nothing
that the agency can do to stop the debt collectors any more."
"Perfectly understood, miss..."
"MRS. Fletcher..." Ah... married. And with a husband who can’t provide the lack and affection she so desperately wants. Needs.
"Now I understand you have resigned from your job at the factory. Are you receiving government support?" I sit on the sofa next to her. Fidget,
"Yeah...um. I mean no."
"You're not receiving benefit or you didn't resign."
"No I’m not receiving benefit and no I didn’t resign. Look, what are you doing tonight?"
"I said, what are you doing tonight. It's a fair question I think. You've been asking all the questions so far. I think it's time that you
answered a question for me."
"Maybe I should come back another time. You clearly need to think this over." She stands up and starts for the front door. Too slow. Far too slow. I
grab her by the waist. She is so perfectly, wonderfully slim. I haven't felt a body as taunt and toned as this in years.
"Please take your hands off me..."
"I repeat. I only want to know what you're doing tonight."
"And if I tell you, then you'll let me go?" She squirms. What delicious wriggling in my arms.
"I promise." My right hand is riding up her skirt up her left thigh - up and up, higher and higher to the tip of her lacy, frilly underwear. I think
it's white. It certainly feels like white. My hand grows damp from sweat at the top of her smooth, legs.
"Please let me go. I've got a meal to go to.” Crying. Lovely, delicate tears running down her cheeks. “It's my daughter’s 16th birthday
tonight…” I put my hand over her mouth.
"Could you please let me go I promise..."
My fist knocks her down to the floor. How could she do that? How could she be so corrupt and impure? Jesus, to think she had eggs and sperm wandering
inside her. I lift up her blouse so I can see for myself the sagginess in the breasts, the ugly scars around her stomach and the evil stain upon her
soul. Repulsive, ugly whore.
She's still groggy so I hit her some more. How could she do this to me? She lead me on, pulling me in like a fish trapped on a rod, and then, this?
If she'd only told me from the start that she was a common slut then I wouldn't have bothered. I wouldn't have even let her into the house. Why did
she had to have a child and spoil it all?
Christ, I'll never understand women. Anyway, she isn't awake so I've got to decide what to do with her. For the moment, I'll tie her up and put a
gag around her mouth.
I nearly vomit as I think of this old slapper dropping her pants down at every opportunity so some fat bastard can plant a nasty little foetus inside
her belly. I'll have to find someone else. I'll have to.
There's her handbag on the floor. Well she's called Patricia and she's 33. Look's like she was pretty slutty as a teenager because Jennifer (and
pretty damned ugly Jennifer from her photo) is going to have an unhappy sweet sixteen. Oh well, she'll have to live with it. Life is pain and
Maybe I could tell her about mommy and all the nasty things I’m going to do to her. Let's see, a good girl like Jenny should be in school. With a
face like hers, Jenny’s got to be a virgin. She’s too damned ugly to be laid. I bet she’s little miss unpopular too, having to party with her
loser mom and dad to compensate for her lack of friends. Poor little lonely Jenny. Stop playing with your dolls, little girl. That's right, come and
play with me...
[edit on 16-10-2005 by kedfr]