Page 29 of There Are No Saints

Then I look through her clothes.

She wears cheap nylon underwear, thin and transparent, in shades of black, gray, and taupe.

Most of her clothes are dirty, stuffed in a drawstring bag to be hauled down to the laundromat.

A single pair of black briefs lies abandoned next to the bed. I assume this is the underwear she shucked off this morning.

Lifting it to my face, I inhale the scent of her warm morning pussy.

It’s similar to the smell of her sheets, but musky.

My cock is raging now. I unzip my pants, allowing it to spring free. I stroke it gently while I breathe in the scent of Mara’s cunt. I even put out my tongue and taste the cotton strip that nestled between her pussy lips.

I picture her laying on the ground, tightly bound, arms behind her back and breasts thrust forward. Her knees were pulled back, her bare pussy exposed. I could have shoved my cock in her. That’s what Alastor expected me to do.

If I had smelled this scent, I would have done it.

I’ve never experienced anything like it. It’s addicting. The longer I spend in this room with her sheets, her half-empty perfume bottle, her dirty laundry, the more it fills my lungs, surging through my blood.

I want it. Fresh from the source.

I’m jerking my cock harder, taking deep breaths.

I imagine her tied down, this time on her back with her legs pulled apart. I imagine burying my face in her cunt, thrusting my tongue all the way inside her while she thrashes against the ropes.

My balls are boiling, my cock throbbing with every heartbeat.

I wrap the panties around the head of my cock and I thrust into them, right against the crotch. My cock erupts, pouring cum into Mara’s underwear.

I use her panties to catch every last drop, squeezing them around the head.

That skimpy black fabric feels better around my cock than any actual pussy I’ve ever fucked. Maybe it’s the novelty, or maybe it’s the way her scent still clings to my fingers, lingering in my lungs.

It’s not enough. The orgasm was rapid, powerful as a rifle shot. I’m not satisfied.

I want to watch Mara in this space. I want to see how she walks around her room, how she undresses, how she behaves when she thinks she’s alone.

I look out her window.

The adjoining row houses offer no line of sight into Mara’s room. But the house behind hers—the tall Georgian with the black shutters—offers a perfect view from its own attic space.

Mara has no curtains on her windows. She’s so high up, she feels as safe as a crow in its nest.

Crows forget about hawks.

I drop the panties back on the floor where I found them.

Then I leave the way I came, already planning to call my estate agent.

* * *

8

Mara

By the time I get home from walking the dogs, I’m late for a date with Josh.

We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a couple of months. He’s a photographer who likes to take pictures of repurposed buildings. Really, he makes most of his money shooting weddings.

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