Page 8 of Little Puppet

Dr. Lynn says this fantasy of mine stems from a life that was out of my control, but I think I’m just searching for a bit of pleasure in a world full of hate and misery.

I’m not some loose cannon who can’t control his urges. I do it all fucking year.

No. I’m just searching for a bit of happiness, not unlike anyone else.

The fire in her eyes told me she might be the one.

But I thought that about Valerie, too. She’s buried somewhere deep in the woods, her hoops the only thing likely not rotten now. At least now, her outward appearance will match her wicked insides.

She nearly broke me more. And in turn, it pushed me closer to the edge of whatever madness I teeter all year long. She made me think she loved me, and for that, she’s six feet under now.

The railways I created in the ceiling run the house’s expanse, even upstairs. My new toy is on strings, hooked to one solid board. The board is connected to a system that allows her to move freely. It also allows me to unhook her if and when I see fit.

Crawling on the ground, I search her upturned car for anything I can find. Her purse is on the passenger side, and I’m thankful it hadn’t fallen out.

This morning, before she woke, I cleaned the roadway free of any debris from her crash and picked up the spikes, not that anyone will travel this stretch of road for the next week.

Hauling the bag toward me, I sit up and lean against the crumpled Civic.

Opening her wallet, I search for her ID, which I find haphazardly thrown inside, not in a specific pocket or holder. This gives the impression that she’s an unorganized mess or doesn’t take a certain amount of pride in her identity.

Maybe she will be malleable after all.

Grace Wilcott, the lisence reads.

Grace.

The name rattles through my head, and I can’t help the immediate reaction.

I rub my cock through my jeans, trying to appease it a little with some attention.

I dump the rest of her bag out.

What women keep in their bags tells the story of them. It took me three girls to figure that out.

She has an inhaler—that I pocket—a hair brush, a few random pieces of makeup, pain medication, and a book.

Not much.

Other women had their purses full to the brim with shit that they likely had forgotten was inside.

Not my Grace, however.

She’s a simple creature.

I like that.

I stuff the purse back together and spy her phone.

It’s in a black case covered with snakes slithering over the plastic. It’s edgy, and I feel something thrumming in my stomach at the sight of it.

It’s locked and needs her fingerprint to open.

But the missed calls on the notifications screen tell me her mom is looking for her already and could become a problem.

I power it off to turn off any location, something I should’ve done last night.

But I’d been too distracted by her.

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