Roger was suddenly aware of the cold-heat of the woman’s stare as he cast his eye around the room, searching for…
“Is there something of Laura’s I can hold? Something personal that she would have been in contact with for long periods…a ring or a necklace perhaps?”
The woman was in a state of shock. She had barely enough strength to wag a finger towards a small square box in front of the dressing table mirror.
Roger quickly stepped across the soft, cream-coloured carpet to retrieve the object.
It was a jewellery box - but not one becoming a grown woman – its white sides embossed with faded pictures of fairy princesses, tiny ‘Tinkerbells’ dancing around rings of washed-out daisies that were as tall as they were. He handled it carefully. The box itself was as light as the pixies that adorned it, but its sentimental value was palpable and weighed heavy in his hands. Opening the lid slowly, he jumped, as a three-inch high fairy popped up from inside, the winged ballerina immediately rotating to the chimes of a classical piece that he recognised but couldn’t name.
At the sound of the music, the woman broke down, sobbing loudly and without shame. Tears poured down her cheeks, the woman letting them flow unrestricted as if to staunch them would be an insult to the daughter to whom those salty droplets were dedicated.
Forcing himself to ignore the woman’s grief, Roger dipped his fingers into the box and pulled out a silver chain - a blue glass teardrop suspended from it. He shut the lid, keen to silence the sounds that were causing Laura’s mother so much distress, and held the necklace towards her.
“This?”
The woman gave a barely perceptible nod.
“She was wearing it when…” Sniffing hard, she swallowed back a second, stronger wave of tears that threatened to spill as she spoke. “…When the police found her…” The words choked her and, despite her efforts, the second wave of grief would not be stifled and broke without mercy. The woman collapsed onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow.
Roger stared at the pendant cupped gently in his palm. He knew what he had to do, but the thought of what might lay in wait for him filled him with dread. Sucking in a deep breath, he cast a self-admonishing glance at the woman sobbing muffled tears into the bed beside him. Whatever he would experience in the next few minutes would be nothing compared to the living hell she had endured, of that he felt sure.
He took the blue glass teardrop between thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes…
Laura lay, naked, on a kitchen table.
A middle-aged man with glasses stood before her. Balding and round, layers of sweaty blubber hung from his chest and gut giving him the impression of a melting, dripping, Easter-egg.
Roger suddenly realised he had been in this situation before and braced himself as the man thrust deeply into Laura’s vagina, her thighs held apart by podgy, clammy hands.
She hated the man.
He hated the man.
He/She – Roger/Laura. They were one and the same. He sensed every thought in her head, every emotion in her heart and felt the burning of her every nerve ending. She despised the man with every fibre of her being– not just because he had tricked her; not just because he had told her he was going to rape, torture and kill her. She hated him because, despite those two facts, the filthy, greasy slob who had been relentlessly pounding inside her for the past hour or more was bringing her to the point of her fifth orgasm – and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Her butt-cheeks slipped back and forth on the wooden table, carried easily on the slick film of her leaking juices as she screamed, her arms pulling at the ropes that bound her.
Roger felt both her ecstasy and her shame.
None of her boyfriends and multiple one-night stands had ever made her come like this, with her pleasure literally gushing between her soaking thighs. Perhaps if one of them had, she wouldn’t be in her current situation. Sick and tired of the multiple lame encounters which sent her home wet, but dissatisfied, leaving her to finish the job herself with the aid of a large dildo, she had scoured the internet for something better.
Oh, God! The dildo!
What, if after she was gone, her mother found it? The poor woman still thought her daughter was a sweet, virginal, little girl. If she discovered the truth it would break her heart. Despite her mother’s overbearing nature, Laura loved her dearly; would never want to hurt her…
No. It would be fine. The sex-toy was well hidden – buried deep inside the fluffy innards of one of her teddy bears – she’d never find it.
Her mind returned to just a few days ago. She had scrolled through prospective dates on her phone’s browser and Bob’s picture had stood out a mile.
Bob’s picture!
Bob’s picture of someone thirty years younger and thirty times better looking more like. She’d waited patiently for a quarter of an hour at the arranged meeting place - a car-park behind a recently closed down multiplex - dripping with the anticipation of finally getting a man who could fulfil her desires. The handsome stud she was expecting was nowhere to be seen and, just as she was about to give up and go home, a beaten up black van pulled in and parked up beside her. A fat, ugly bloke jumped out, leaving the engine running. “Get in, slut!”
She had frozen with shock. Her brain screamed ‘run’, but her legs remained rooted to the spot. Bob quickly grabbed her and threw her into the van, jumping in after her and hitting the accelerator.
Roger
