That night, when I drove to Annie, I saw stars. A blanket of them stretched carelessly across the sky, as if their existence was no fucking big deal. For nine hours I got to see them. And now, as I crunch my way through stale apple substitute, I suddenly want, even have, to see them again.
I toss the paper plate to the side and stand. Walk to the kitchen counter and open the drawer. Grab the only knife I keep readily available, a butter knife. Wild woman I am. I grip the knife in my fist and walk to the window. Slide the edge down the jamb and start to scrape the paint.
Scrape. I don’t focus on the task, or the growing pain in my hand from the effort. I sit on a stool by the window and scrape at the dried pink paint. Wonder, with each dig of metal into pink, if I will regret this. Is seeing stars worth the temptation of fresh air? Worth the removal of a barrier? I break through the final piece of paint and set the knife down. Move the stool aside and flip the window’s latch, placing my hands on the wooden frame. Pause for a beat as I analyze this poor decision.
Yes, this is wrong.
But my sanity is worth a little risk.
I need this step. I need to prove I can handle this step.
I yank, the window sticking an inch up, the crisp night air sneaking through the crack. I tug harder, the whistle of air blowing stronger as the wood behaves underneath my palms and slides all the way up. I smile despite my better judgment, and lean through the dark hole.
Stars. A galaxy of them, stretching above me. I stare, my breath gone for one moment, stolen by the awesomeness of our galaxy. Wonder at the view from the heavens. Wonder whether my family is up there, watching me, watching this step. Wonder if they are proud, or if they are screaming at me to get the hell back inside. That is the issue with being my own police, the responsibility to decide if the decisions I make are right. Annie was right. I know that, I have to believe that. I return inside for a brief, depressing moment and grab a blanket, gingerly sliding a foot through the open window and sitting on the ledge, the blanket around me, my forefinger running over a small blister on my thumb. I opened the window and it is okay. It is night; I am, in a small way, free. My reward: the stars, stars I have missed, stars I’ve spent three years imagining on the ceiling above me. I lean my head back against wood and look up.
And here, under this sky of impossibility, I feel the first slice of understanding at the enormity of things out of my control. I am one of thousands underneath this sky, not someone particularly special or unique.
Yes, I’ve killed. Yes, I still want to kill. But, looking up at thousands of lights that could harbor unknown galaxies and universes, could hold my missing family, I feel a bit, there, somewhere… yes… a flicker of hope.
There has to be a plan. I have to have a purpose. I am, despite all that rots in my core, a good person.
I sit, my head resting on the frame, a pile of pink paint shavings beneath my dangling foot, and stare until my eyes become heavy and I finally move to bed, leaving the window open, the fresh air my excuse.
Star light. Star bright.
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, wish I might.
Not kill those whom my heart holds tight.
CHAPTER 9
“I WANT TO see you naked.”
I fight a yawn. Shocker. This guy is original. With a name like PluckTheBirds I would have expected more. But that’s what I get for a guy whose webcam is turned on, yet facing a blank wall, his need to speak versus type indicating a desire for full hands-on masturbation. I smile, shimmy out of my teddy and step closer to the cam, slowly pulling off my shelf bra as my eyes watch the cam clock. It’s a delicate balance, stretching out the minutes without pissing off the clients. But it’s something that I, in my online persona as JessReilly19, have mastered. I turn, my back to the cam, and crawl onto the bed, bending over before the cam and sliding my panties over my ass when he speaks, the words giving me pause.
“You like pain?”
I pause. PluckTheBirds better not be wanting to pluck my hairs, or watch me scrape on nipple clamps and tug my girly points to bloody bits. There are other girls on this site for that. Girls that get wetter the more pain that rips through their body. Girls that rival me in craziness. “In what way?” I almost stop my panty removal process, ready to sit up, lean back and press the “End Chat” button.
“I like pain. I’d like you to tie me up. Hurt me, cause me pain.”
I relax, kicking my leg to the side, watching my panties fly across the room.
Yeah. Yeah, I like pain.
Twelve minutes later, I am about to come. My excitement builds at the realization. It rarely happens in a chat, my body too bored with the constraints of digital interaction. But this man, this sub, wants pain. It’s something I rarely do; the clients wanting that normally go for the dominatrix types. But today has been slow and my fingers are numb from the vibration of my toys, so what-the-hell, I’m here, my legs spread, my fingers strumming across my clit in a frantic movement that would make Keith Richards proud. And I am pouring my soul out to him. Our role-play has me straddling his body, his hard cock inside of me. My hands wrapped tight around his neck. His hands tied, spread-eagle to the bed, helpless to stop me. The frantic pumps of his hips as he tries to squirm free pushing his cock deeper and deeper, the thrash of his body creating additional friction against my clit. He is hard despite himself. Unable to resist my body. The soft touch of my fingers, even as they dig into the muscles of his throat. I make him stare into my eyes as he gulps for air.
I toss the paper plate to the side and stand. Walk to the kitchen counter and open the drawer. Grab the only knife I keep readily available, a butter knife. Wild woman I am. I grip the knife in my fist and walk to the window. Slide the edge down the jamb and start to scrape the paint.
Scrape. I don’t focus on the task, or the growing pain in my hand from the effort. I sit on a stool by the window and scrape at the dried pink paint. Wonder, with each dig of metal into pink, if I will regret this. Is seeing stars worth the temptation of fresh air? Worth the removal of a barrier? I break through the final piece of paint and set the knife down. Move the stool aside and flip the window’s latch, placing my hands on the wooden frame. Pause for a beat as I analyze this poor decision.
Yes, this is wrong.
But my sanity is worth a little risk.
I need this step. I need to prove I can handle this step.
I yank, the window sticking an inch up, the crisp night air sneaking through the crack. I tug harder, the whistle of air blowing stronger as the wood behaves underneath my palms and slides all the way up. I smile despite my better judgment, and lean through the dark hole.
Stars. A galaxy of them, stretching above me. I stare, my breath gone for one moment, stolen by the awesomeness of our galaxy. Wonder at the view from the heavens. Wonder whether my family is up there, watching me, watching this step. Wonder if they are proud, or if they are screaming at me to get the hell back inside. That is the issue with being my own police, the responsibility to decide if the decisions I make are right. Annie was right. I know that, I have to believe that. I return inside for a brief, depressing moment and grab a blanket, gingerly sliding a foot through the open window and sitting on the ledge, the blanket around me, my forefinger running over a small blister on my thumb. I opened the window and it is okay. It is night; I am, in a small way, free. My reward: the stars, stars I have missed, stars I’ve spent three years imagining on the ceiling above me. I lean my head back against wood and look up.
And here, under this sky of impossibility, I feel the first slice of understanding at the enormity of things out of my control. I am one of thousands underneath this sky, not someone particularly special or unique.
Yes, I’ve killed. Yes, I still want to kill. But, looking up at thousands of lights that could harbor unknown galaxies and universes, could hold my missing family, I feel a bit, there, somewhere… yes… a flicker of hope.
There has to be a plan. I have to have a purpose. I am, despite all that rots in my core, a good person.
I sit, my head resting on the frame, a pile of pink paint shavings beneath my dangling foot, and stare until my eyes become heavy and I finally move to bed, leaving the window open, the fresh air my excuse.
Star light. Star bright.
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, wish I might.
Not kill those whom my heart holds tight.
CHAPTER 9
“I WANT TO see you naked.”
I fight a yawn. Shocker. This guy is original. With a name like PluckTheBirds I would have expected more. But that’s what I get for a guy whose webcam is turned on, yet facing a blank wall, his need to speak versus type indicating a desire for full hands-on masturbation. I smile, shimmy out of my teddy and step closer to the cam, slowly pulling off my shelf bra as my eyes watch the cam clock. It’s a delicate balance, stretching out the minutes without pissing off the clients. But it’s something that I, in my online persona as JessReilly19, have mastered. I turn, my back to the cam, and crawl onto the bed, bending over before the cam and sliding my panties over my ass when he speaks, the words giving me pause.
“You like pain?”
I pause. PluckTheBirds better not be wanting to pluck my hairs, or watch me scrape on nipple clamps and tug my girly points to bloody bits. There are other girls on this site for that. Girls that get wetter the more pain that rips through their body. Girls that rival me in craziness. “In what way?” I almost stop my panty removal process, ready to sit up, lean back and press the “End Chat” button.
“I like pain. I’d like you to tie me up. Hurt me, cause me pain.”
I relax, kicking my leg to the side, watching my panties fly across the room.
Yeah. Yeah, I like pain.
Twelve minutes later, I am about to come. My excitement builds at the realization. It rarely happens in a chat, my body too bored with the constraints of digital interaction. But this man, this sub, wants pain. It’s something I rarely do; the clients wanting that normally go for the dominatrix types. But today has been slow and my fingers are numb from the vibration of my toys, so what-the-hell, I’m here, my legs spread, my fingers strumming across my clit in a frantic movement that would make Keith Richards proud. And I am pouring my soul out to him. Our role-play has me straddling his body, his hard cock inside of me. My hands wrapped tight around his neck. His hands tied, spread-eagle to the bed, helpless to stop me. The frantic pumps of his hips as he tries to squirm free pushing his cock deeper and deeper, the thrash of his body creating additional friction against my clit. He is hard despite himself. Unable to resist my body. The soft touch of my fingers, even as they dig into the muscles of his throat. I make him stare into my eyes as he gulps for air.
