Page 5 of Strings Attached
I supposed having been the only survivor of a home invasion when I was fifteen years old and watching as my foster parents were killed might have to do with my feelings about my whole situation. But I’d hoped since starting the program recommended by my social worker that the darkness lingering inside me would’ve vanished by now. Yet, at the age of twenty-seven, I still didn’t mind the morbid side of death. On the contrary, I was fascinated by it.
The washroom was empty, as predicted, and I stepped inside. My pulse still didn’t slow at the whole situation; it still seemed insane the killer had been there, waiting. How? And why had he killed Patrice? I closed the toilet seat and sat, running my fingers through my hair and gripping it. Sure, I didn’t mind the subject of death, but having come so close to it only dawned on me then and there. He would’ve murdered me for sure, right? What else could he want?
At the thought of having my throat sliced open, or drowned, stabbed...depending on the card I chose, I shivered. If I was right about how he worked, he was using four cards, all Jacks, and always left behind a deck of cards at the scene with a missing Jack. Through research, I’d figured it out and confirmed my suspicions. It was why his method of killing varied so much; it was determined by the chosen card.
There was a small knock at the door, and I jumped. A small part of me hesitated. What if it was the killer? I scoffed at my imagination but still didn’t unlock it as I approached.
“Occupied,” I called out, not too loud.
“It’s me,” Martin hissed through his teeth. I opened the door, he stepped inside. “What the hell? Usually, the knock is enough.”
“Oh, terribly sorry to inconvenience you,” I said, crossing my arms. “I told you I’m a bit more paranoid than usual. What do you expect?”
“Some logic, maybe?” he said with a scoff. Still, he handed me the laptop.
“Thanks,” I said in a shaky voice as I put the device into my messenger bag.
When I straightened, he gripped the back of my neck and pulled me close. “How much do you appreciate it?” he asked in a low voice.
My pulse quickened faster than the thoughts of murders and serial killers. Martin wanted me. Desired me. Not in public, but in private, at least.
I slowly got down on my knees, the tiles cold against my skin. They creaked beneath me, but I didn’t care. None of it mattered except for pleasuring Martin. My feelings for him only seemed to grow when he looked at me that way... like I was the only woman in the world for him. Even if only in that moment.
Lifting his t-shirt, I took the time to run my hands along his narrow waist, his tight, flat belly hot to the touch. I undid his jeans, tugging on them until they slid down his long, muscular thighs. He wasn’t wearing anything beneath, and my panties pooled in warmth at the sight of his growing arousal. He was already hard for me, and that just made the throbbing between my legs more intense.
I enjoyed being down on the floor this way while he towered over me. It made him seem more dominant, even if he wasn’t really. I could picture him grabbing me by the hair and pushing his cock down my throat. But he never touched me or looked at me while I took him in my mouth. He just closed his eyes and groaned.
Flicking my tongue across the head of his bulging erection, he jerked, his eyes shutting as usual. This time, he caressed the side of my cheek, and that touch alone sent butterflies fluttering through my stomach.
I took him into my mouth, swirling my tongue around his rigid shaft. Moving my hands along the same rhythm, I slurped and suckled, picturing him fucking me from behind like he did sometimes. How he’d pounded into me hard and fast, hitting my sensitive spot at just the right angle. Then again, it wasn’t difficult for me to reach climax; it actually didn’t take much at all.
He let out a shuddering breath, and I knew he was close to orgasm. I took his erection down my throat, swallowing around it multiple times, doing my best to breathe through my nose despite gagging a few times. Tears ran down my cheeks as I imagined him holding me in place, hands tied behind my back, taking what was his. In my imagination, I enjoyed being roughed up. It was one of the ways I was always able to cum so fast.
Having his erect manhood down my throat hurt, but the pain only heightened my orgasm as an explosion of ecstasy ran down my body. I moaned against him, then played with his balls, rolling them between my fingers as I sucked harder against his member. He groaned low, and his hot seed spilled into my mouth, trickling down my throat.
Before I knew it, he helped me to my feet and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. It was awkward, almost as though he’d forced himself to do it. Deflation hit me, but I forced a smile.
“Thanks again for the laptop.”
He pulled his pants back up and buttoned up. “Yeah, no problem. And thanks for...” He cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze. “Thanks.”
And without another word, he left me alone in the washroom.
4
Waiting
Ifinished writing the last of my notes, then jotted down the annotation. The book itself had seen better days; the paper thinned and had a musty smell to it. It was almost too dry to the touch, as though the material was flaking off. Or maybe it was just a lot of dust.
I closed it and began putting away some of my belongings before slowing my pace. No one had shown up yet, and part of me?an insane part?hoped the killer would. But maybe he didn’t want to be seen, and having been here most of the evening, he hadn’t had the chance to approach me. I glanced around; a few other students busied themselves with work at their own little cubicles. Leaving things unattended wasn’t out of the ordinary when needing to use the washroom quickly, but I was always a bit nervous about it. Still, I needed to leave something behind so he’d know I was coming back.
I grabbed my messenger bag but left the rest. Drinks, empty wrappers, a few books, and some notes; a message to anyone seeing the desk that whoever was using it wasn’t done with it yet. As I left the quiet room, chills ran along my skin at the sudden blast of air conditioner; apparently, someone wanted to pretend they lived in the Arctic in this particular corridor. That or the thing was busted.
The washroom was tiny, only two stalls. But with one on every floor, they didn’t need to be much bigger. Not as though people spent hours in here usually. I picked the one against the wall and sat on the toilet, trying not to think of the germs I could be getting. Hovering wasn’t an option; I’d likely lose my balance and fall face-first on the floor. Not a position I wanted paramedics to find me in. And if I covered the seat with toilet paper, it would likely stick to my sweaty thighs more than anything.
The door to the washroom opened, and I stiffened. Heavy boots stepped forward, the sound of the metal on the sides clicking against the zippers. My heart hammered in my chest as I held my breath, waiting for the stall door to suddenly break down and have a maniac brandishing a knife at me.
Instead, the door opened again, and someone else walked in.
