Page 18 of Cut Me Down

My obsession with her has only grown, and the vile, cruel things I think of to the thought of someone else touching her is alarming. She’s done something to me, awoken whatever demon was dormant deep in my chest, and soon she’ll experience the monster she’s unleashed. I’ve found every piece of available information that technology has on her. Background checks, social media, medical history, bank accounts, credit report, and what property taxes she’s charged for. I also saw where she had to pay for parking last month to go to the grocery store. Outrageous. I’m just going to buy her the yearly pass. My girl isn't going to struggle from something as simples as going to the store.

She just got off from work and went upstairs to make dinner. A small portion for anyone else, but with her documented stomach issues throughout her time with Cooper explains that reasoning.

Fuck I hate saying his name…

Once she’s done eating, she washes the same plate and silverware she always uses and puts it back on the dish rack. Normally, she’d make her way to bed and turn on whatever movie she feels necessary, but this time, she doesn’t go straight to the bedroom. Instead, she stops at her kitchen counter and pulls her cup of flowers over to her.

I see as she inhales their scent, like an angel smelling God’s creations. I’ve given her countless flowers over the past two weeks, all black or dark red, but none of them as beautiful or captivating as her.

They remind me of her, each having to endure the harsh nature to bloom, just like her. Each but the first with notes attached, telling her she owns me, that I own her, that I imagine her touch as soft as the pedals. After I found all of the information I did on her, I sent her a note with her next flower that demanded her story be carved into the cathedral walls, and I meant it. She’s a Shakespearian Queen and deserves all of the praise that comes with it. Someone with that kind of strength and determination to live should be worshipped, and I’ll willingly bow at her alter.

I watch as she plucks the tulip, the first flower I left for her, from the cup and carry it with her to the bedroom. She crawls into her bed in nothing but a black thong and over-sized t-shirt. That’ll be replaced with my t-shirt soon enough, or better yet, nothing at all. From the way she nestles on top of her pillows and lies on her back, propping her head up slightly, I can quickly see where this is heading, and I’ve never felt so shaky with anticipation. I never understood why women love the ‘paint me like one of your French girls scene’. However, I certainly do now. I can picture myself smearing the blood of her enemies across her chest as I force my cock inside her tight walls. The way her nipples would harden as I rolled them between my fingers. Or how her how pussy would swallow my thick digits as I took my time and played with her.

My dick presses against my pants again, and I can already feel the throbbing head begging to be inside her. I’ve been trying like hell to ignore the throb, the incessant need to pleasure myself every chance I get to the thought of her. I need to be hard and ready for her when the time comes. The first time she has sex in years needs to be memorable. Pleasurable, mind blowing, and soul sucking, and it damn sure will be.

I watch intensely as with her left hand she brings the flower to her nose, and with the other starts to lift her t-shirt as she sensually feels her skin from her belly button upward. Giving me a divine view of perfection. I excitedly give in, unzip my pants, and pull out my cock, pumping it slowly, determined to wait to ravage myself to thoughts of her until she starts to get into her own rhythm.

Practically torturing myself, I grip my base at a strength I imagine her touch to have. Then I mask the feel of my own hand by imagining how soft and tender the flesh of her palm would rub against my shaft. Those slender, delicate fingers gracefully wrapping around my hardened length. Not even able to grasp it fully. How slowly and sensually she would run her hand upward to the tip, and swipe the pad of her thumb along my slit. Spreading the precum around to act as a lubricant.

Fuck. I'm going to cum just from the thought.

Her hand grazes across that perfect body, exploring every tantalizing curve. Making its way up to her now clearly hardened nipples. She twists her left nipple in her hand and her breath stalls. The pain clearly shooting a pleasurable sensation throughout her body due to the sight of her muscles tensing.

I knew my girl liked pain.

After pulling on it, she slips her fingers back down her smooth skin and into her thong, her head flying back at the sensation. Quickly, I spit in my hand and grab the base of my cock. Pumping it slowly as I wait for her to really play with herself. I only begin to stroke it faster once I see the arch of her back curl, creating the perfect bridge between euphoria and bliss. I imagine those painted black nails tearing into the skin on my back, and what her moans would sound like vibrating against my dick. That long black hair curled in my fist and her golden-brown eyes rolling into the back of her head as I make her come.

The movement her hand makes shows that her fingers are creating perfect pressured circles around her clit as her neck begins to stretch out, accentuating her now labored breaths. Those perfect tits rising and falling under that god forsaken shirt. I suddenly want nothing more than to press the sharpened side of knife at the hem of her shirt and jerk up with all of my strength to rip that useless fabric from her divine figure.

She inhales one last deep smell of the flowers’ essence before plunging two fingers into her soaking pussy. Her soft, warm, supple fingers sliding through her slick at just the right angle. Sure to curl into the sweet point of no return. Timing the thrust of her fingers in tune with the circular motions her thumb is now creating. Her eyes begin to roll the moment her body tenses. I can just imagine how her cunt is clenching around those fingers as she bends them to her will.

I feel my own body tense at the thought. That rumble at the base of my spine building and roaring, but I hold my release. Determined to watch as my goddess’ release floods her body and fractures her psyche.

Her mouth opens and leg jolts, and just the sight of that makes my balls tighten and abdominal muscle taut as I come alongside her into the towel from my shower. I watch as she battles to catch her breath. Her hand moves from her spasming core to run gently over her hips and thighs in slow, comforting motions. Seemingly, to calm herself down.

I take a deep, shaky breath in, my arousal still gnawing at me, as I watch her smell her flower one last time before placing it on her nightstand and rolling over. Showing me that perfect plump ass and tantalizing curve as her body lays across her bed.

I know exactly what flower she’ll be getting tomorrow. Something as rare and seductive as she is. A symbol of lust, but as black as the depths that I'm willing to dive into for her.

I pull out my cigarettes and light one before I pull out my phone to text Carter. It’s time to show my obsession what she’s done to me. It’s finally time that I introduce myself. Cement myself into her world and change it for her forever.

Me:

You need a haircut. Tomorrow at 6pm.

My phone beeps, and I check it, thinking it would be Carter. It’s not. It’s Zeke, another close friend, and the guy I sent out to Seattle.

Zeke:

Arrived at targets’ last known location. Looks like he packed up and left in a hurry. Already called Carter to check flight logs for his name.

Fuck.

I slowly and carefully make my way into her apartment by picking the shitty locks on her door. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist. I need to be closer to her. To see her deep breaths and peaceful sleep. Especially after receiving that message from Zeke.

Looking around the small space, I see that while she may live here, this is no home. There’s nothing that makes this place personal, and certainly doesn’t reflect who she is.

The furniture is plain, there’s a total of four plates, bowls, glasses, and sets of silverware, and there’s only one picture in the living area. A picture of herself, her best friend Serena, and I’m assuming Serena’s parents. It sits in a cheap, small frame on one of the plain wooden end tables beside her beige couch. She clearly does not have the monetary capabilities to buy the things she actually wants.

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