And heat poured through me.
As the hours passed, I fantasized that she was sleeping in the bed above me, mere inches away, with no idea how close I was.
And then at last the house fell silent, and I was alone.
Alone with my passion and my fantasy, and the knowledge that soon the fantasy would become reality.
I’m not sure how long it was before I finally heard the front door close, but the moment it did, my heart began to pound so hard that I found it hard to breathe.
She turned on the television.
I don’t like that.
I felt my groin begin to ache as I heard her slowly come up the stairs, and as I watched her feet as she padded into the bedroom, opened a drawer, and sighed, I felt myself begin to harden…
A moment later she sat on the bed, and the mattress sagged and touched my chest. It was incredible — I could almost imagine it was her fingers themselves touching me. Then a shoe dropped, and then the other, falling to the floor with a carelessness that I like no more than the sound of the television. Once her shoes were off, she stood up, turned on her music and danced a few steps, her naked feet only inches from my face.
I could have reached out and taken her then.
Next her blouse dropped to the floor right before my eyes, and then her shorts as well!
It was as if she knew I was there, and doing what she’s always done.
There she was, only inches away, and clad in nothing more than her bra and panties.
Thin, light green bikini panties, I imagined. Or perhaps the ones with butterflies on them that I’d seen in her drawer on Wednesday.
As I watched, she slid one of her feet into a slipper and put the other foot under the bed, feeling for the second slipper. I wanted to touch her foot so badly I could barely rein in the urge, but I held fast!
Patience! That is the key to everything.
A moment later her hand came snaking under the bed, and for an instant it seemed she was reaching out for me.
I shrank away, of course. The moment of capture was not yet at hand, and I was about to nudge the slipper closer to her grasp when the telephone rang.
In an instant her hand vanished and the mattress sagged above me once more.
As she talked with her friend, I felt the moment draw closer and knew I wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
Though the torture had been sublime, it was time to take her home.
I began to slip out from beneath the bed, and knew the exact moment when she became aware of my presence.
It was a moment we shared together — the first of what I know will be a lifetime of such moments.
Before she could even speak, I seized her, my fingers closing on her ankles. If she screamed, I have no memory of it.
Perhaps she didn’t scream at all.
Or perhaps the music drowned out her scream.
Certainly, any scream she might have made would have been like music to my ears.
Would have been, and will be for a very long time to come…
I held her tightly, covering her body with my own.
Then I covered her lips with mine, and this is when I nearly lost control in the feel of her skin against my body, in the smell of her that filled my nose.
And in the terror I saw in her eyes.
I wanted to lie atop her for hours, feeling her submitting to my power, but the glue on my fingertips — the glue that saved me from leaving my fingerprints anywhere in this house — now prevented me from touching her cheek or her lips or her eyes the way I wished.
Once again I drew upon my patience; there would be time for all of that later. But first there were chores to be done.
Chores must always be done before pleasures are to be taken.
Just after the sun set, I took her home. Everything about that brief trip was entrancing — not just the fear I felt from her, but everything else as well.
Her ineffectual struggle against the bindings on her hands and feet — a silent struggle, given the gag in her mouth. But the struggles won’t last long. Certainly no longer than my own.
Soon.
Soon she’ll submit to me, just as I submitted to her.
As she struggled and trembled, I wrapped her snugly in a blanket from her bed and kissed her forehead.
Then I carried her home so that we may begin.
All will be once more as it was the last time we were together.
But it will be different, too. Oh yes! This time it will be different.
This time I’ll be saved.
Chapter Eighteen
The house was ablaze with light as Steve and Kara pulled into the drive. “See?” Steve said. “She’s home.”
Kara remembered turning all the lights on in the house when she had been a nervous teen left home alone for the first time, but also knew that it didn’t mean anything.
Lights on didn’t mean anyone was at home.
She jumped out of the car before Steve even turned the engine off. “Lindsay?” she yelled as she burst through the door from the garage into the kitchen.
In the living room, the television was blaring, and she switched it off, then went through every room, turning off half the lights even though she was barely aware she was doing it. “Lindsay?” she called out again when she came to the bottom of the stairs.
Now Steve was in the house, too, standing in the dining room holding the note Mark Acton had left on the table. “Well, this looks good,” he said. “Seems like there were a couple of dozen people here today, and this guy Acton seems to think he might have an offer by tomorrow!”
Kara ignored him, heading upstairs, but even as she approached Lindsay’s room, and heard no music drifting from her daughter’s open door, she was all but certain what she would find.
Something was wrong — she could feel it. And the feeling hadn’t started in the car when Lindsay didn’t answer the phone. No, she’d first felt it at dinner, but told herself it was nothing — that there was no reason to think Lindsay wasn’t exactly where she’d said she’d be — first at cheerleading practice, then at Dawn's. She should have called then — she should have excused herself from the Bennetts’ less than scintillating company, gone to the ladies’ lounge and called her daughter.
Instead she’d ignored her feeling and finished her meal.
And now, if Lindsay really was in trouble, Kara knew she would never forgive herself.
“Lindsay?” she called yet again.
No answer.
Feeling her panic rising, Kara stepped into Lindsay’s room, found it as empty as she’d known it would be, then quickly searched the rest of the upstairs — her own bedroom, the bathrooms, the guest room, even the office that doubled as a sewing room, which Lindsay had always hated because it meant mending clothes she’d rather replace.
No Lindsay.
“She’s not here,” she called down to Steve. “I’m going to call the police.”
“The police?” Steve echoed, emerging from the kitchen with a drink in his hand to peer up the stairs at his
