by A. R. Torre
“I need you to trace an IP address.”
“You want just a location—address?”
“I want everything you can get me.”
“Everything is a lot. You sure you want—”
“Everything. I’ll have more questions for you once I get that info.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“Two hundred bucks. And an anal show—twenty minutes.”
“How about three hundred and no anal? You know I hate that shit.”
He laughs, the mike distorting the sound. “That’s why I’m asking for it. Come on. You can choose the toy. Twenty minutes and two hundred bucks.”
“Ten minutes. You know I can get you off in that time period.”
“Ouch. But you have a point.” He pauses, and I wait, fighting the urge to bite my nails. “Okay. E-mail me the IP, and I’ll send you the info later tonight.”
I smile. “You’re the best.”
“I try. Night, baby.”
“Night, Mike.”
Mike is as good as promised. Within two hours I have Ralph’s name, address, Social Security number, and last two tax returns. I also have a complete dossier on the man, including employment records, medical reports, and a background check. I grab a Jenny Craig apple strudel from the kitchen and settle in to read the information.
Ralph Atkins, age forty-one, is a plumber. He was born in Statesboro, Georgia, and has two siblings. No dependents listed on his tax returns. Income last year was $54,029. Criminal background check is clean. Medical stats show him to be five feet nine inches tall, 190 pounds, with 30 percent body fat. He had an appendectomy six years ago and is currently prescribed 10 milligrams a day of Crestor for high cholesterol. He drives a year-old navy blue Ford Explorer with a tag number of X42FF.
He lives not in Massachusetts, as I expected from his MA monger, but in Brooklet, Georgia—a small farming town with a population of 1,250, a tiny police force, and one local doctor. Google Maps shows Brooklet to be a thirteen-hour drive from my apartment.
What is missing from the information is if he knows a young girl named Annie. The possibilities seem endless. A small town full of neighborhood kids and a job that takes him in and out of homes in all the surrounding towns. Couple that with two siblings, unknown cousins, and unknown nieces. How could I ever find her? What if her name isn’t Annie? What if she doesn’t even exist?
I IM Mike back, asking for all known relatives of Ralph’s siblings, as well as all neighbor kids within a five-mile radius. I also ask for the last six months of plumbing jobs that Ralph had had and any hobbies or extracurricular activities of his.
Mike’s response comes too soon to be productive.
---Your pussy isn’t that good bb.
How much?
---$1000
Okay. I also need to know everything he is doing online—computer history, that kind of stuff. Can you get all that from his computer?
---Why?
Can you get it? I’ll go to someone else if not.
---Bitchy…Will he open an attachment that u send him?
Yes. If you can hide it in an image or video file.
---Ok. Then yes. Two thousand.
For both?
---No. For the computer clone. It will give you his files also.
$3K is pricey. Services exchange?
---Not for this shit. This is jail time shit.
Okay. $3500 if I can get it in the next 48 hours.
---Deal.
---Still love you babe
u2. get to work. :)
I ended up wasting that initial thousand dollars. I didn’t have to do any searching for her at all. Three days later, everyone in Georgia knew who Annie was. And everyone was hoping she was still alive.
CHAPTER 43
FINANCIAL DOMINATION: A fetish that is rooted in deep need for a loss of control. A form of BDSM, the submissive’s arousal comes from the thought or action of being swindled or manipulated into parting with money.13 The larger the sum, the more aroused the submissive might become. Traditional “findom” acts include blackmail, tributes (monetary gifts), and the sharing of credit card and bank account information for unfettered access.14
TAKEITALL61 SEEMED TO be the perfect man: sweet, caring, and wanting to give me every dollar in his wallet. We chatted for almost two months before he dropped off the face of the earth. I’m assuming he finally hit rock bottom. I hope the orgasms were worth it.
Our first chat was almost six months ago.
- FREE CHAT ENDED - takeitALL61 HAS STARTED A PRIVATE CHAT
“Hey, takeit!” I smiled and reached back, unclipping my bra and sliding it off, exposing my breasts for the cam.
takeitALL61: hey babe. My name is Frank
“Hey, Frank. What are you in the mood for today?”
takeitALL61: I want you to order me to give you money.
takeitALL61 was the first financial dom client I ever had. He was patient with me, as are most clients with unusual requests, and by our third chat I understood exactly what it was he wanted.
“Don’t you pull out your fucking cock, Frank—that is not what I want!” I pointed into the camera, my face fierce and angry.
takeitALL61: yes bb. sorry. what do you want?
“I want you to pull out your fucking wallet. Did you go to the bank today?”
takeitALL61: yes beautiful. I went at lunch
“Did you spend any money since then?” I knelt, a silk robe wrapped around me, all trace of compassion gone from my eyes.
takeitALL61: no! i promise.
“Good boy. I want you to open up your wallet, and then I’ll let you pull out that cock. You’re going to have to give me every dollar in that wallet before I let you come. Do you understand?”
takeitALL61: yes bb. i will. but I have bills that i need to pay
“Fuck that! You aren’t paying the bills this month, Frank. You are going to give me your money, every last cent of it, until you are broke and living in the gutter. Do you understand me, Frank? You jack off that cock if you understand.”
Frank never gave me a dollar over the preset $6.99 a minute. He didn’t even use the “tip” button that is displayed so prominently over our chat window. I could have used that as part of our play, but it seemed too cruel. Especially to a client who was already doomed to financial ruin.
CHAPTER 44
Four years earlier
Jennifer Blake. She was that girl at school—the one everyone wanted to be friends with and whose friends were in constant fear of getting kicked to the curb. The queen bee: beautiful, ruthless, with everything going for her. Money, power, and Josh Martin—the most gorgeous, perfect guy any of us had ever met. Jennifer’s parents had a lake house about ten miles out of town, and it was there that Jennifer hosted her annual party. No parents, free alcohol, and enough bedrooms for a hundred high school seniors to have one hell of a good time. I was one step under goody-goody, so I wouldn’t be having sex or doing drugs. But I wasn’t above drinking a few Smirnoff Ices and making out on a couch. And I desperately wanted to go to that party. I hadn’t been invited the previous year and had spent the whole night feeling sorry for myself in my bedroom. This year I had gotten the coveted invite, passed on casually by Jennifer as she walked by my locker one remarkable Wednesday. I was finally “in,” and I’d be damned if I missed the party by sleeping at my grandparents’.
So Saturday night I decided—sometime between Nana’s apple pie and Papa’s evening news, once I realized that there was, in fact, no graduation surprise planned—that I would go. I’d wait till they both fell asleep, sneak out the back, and then drive to the lake house. I’d be back and sound asleep in bed by the time they woke up for church the next morning. Easy peasy.
I sat through three Seinfeld episodes before I kissed them both good night and headed upstairs, locking the door behind me and unzipping my suitcase. I quickly realized, after flipping through the folded piles, that Mom ha
d not packed a single party outfit that would be Jennifer Blake acceptable. The worst thing was that I knew the perfect outfit—pictured it as clearly as if it hung before me. The green sundress—fitted enough to be sexy, but casual enough that I didn’t look like I was trying too hard. I had purchased it just two days ago, the shopping bag tossed carelessly in the backseat of Mom’s car, where it no doubt still sat. I chewed my thumbnail and thought, weighing my options: Skip the party; attend the party in the wrong outfit; or swing by my house on the way. I checked my watch. Fuck it. I’d stop by home, sneak into the garage, grab the dress, and change in the car. That late at night, everyone would be inside or asleep anyway.
When there is evil in someone, it grows, unattended by all and fielded by its harborer. I know this; I feel it each and every day, growing stronger inside of me till one day—snap—it will take control, and every logical thought process, every thought of survival and preservation, will disappear, and I will be a loose cannon, fired and on my path of destruction, with nothing but my own doom ahead of me and the demise of whoever lay in my final path.
RalphMA35 hasn’t snapped yet. But I can see his path as clearly as I can see my own. And it is coming. His demented evil is growing, and I am undoubtedly fanning the flame. I promise you, that is not my intention. My intention is only to save her.
CHAPTER 45
JEREMY
JEREMY COULDN’T STOP thinking about her. Part of it was the fucked-up-ness of it all; part of it was the image of her, naked beneath him. Part of it was the infatuation that had kept his mind and heart occupied for the last three years. Two long days had passed without any packages for her. Today, salvation had come in the form of an overnight express package from Instruct DVDs, the parcel addressed to “Jessica Reilly.” Twice he stopped to buy her flowers and both times idled at the florist’s curb for a few minutes before he ultimately talked himself out of it and pulled away.
Now there is nothing to do but knock. He had spent all day trying to figure out what to say and had come up with absolutely zilch. He hesitates, then lifts his hand and knocked.
There is a pause—a long pause—during which he has to remind himself to breathe. He fantasizes for a second that today would be a repeat of last time; that she would not respond, wanting him to burst in, and she would be naked and waiting. Then she speaks, and the fantasy evaporates.
“Leave it. Thank you.”
The same short response he had heard for weeks…months…years. She had the same tone, inflection, and utter lack of connection. It was as if it had never happened, as if she had never been naked beneath him, as if they had never kissed, caressed, thought about doing more. He stands there, tongue-tied, the small package in his hand.
“I thought maybe—” His sentence dies abruptly, and he wets his lips and tries again. “I—”
“Leave it. Thank you.” Same tone. Same inflection.
He sets down the package, scrawls her name with slow strokes, and tries to think. Then he turns and walks to the elevator, glancing back twice at her closed door.
I stand at the door, my eye to the peephole, watching his strong profile as it turns, pauses, and then continues. My body twitches, a battle raging. Need driving my core. Need for interaction, for his touch, and for his blood. My hand shaking, I loosen my grip, and the knife drops harmlessly to the floor, the sound loud in my empty apartment.
I sob, the cry bursting uncontrollably out of me, and sink to the floor. There, against the hard door, I allow myself one brief moment of tears. Tears for the missed opportunity, for the life I am missing outside these walls, and for the utter waste at letting that beautiful man walk away alone.
Self-pity. Millicent Fenwick describes it as a terrible squirrel cage of self. For me, it is a futile waste of time. I breathe, suck it up, and stand, wiping tears and heading back to my pink bed of distraction.
snap
CHAPTER 46
ANNIE
ANNIE LIES IN bed and looks at the ceiling, plastic glow-in-the-dark stars glued to its surface. The stars don’t glow anymore, but they still sit there—stuck on and forgotten about. The room is hot, but her momma doesn’t believe in turning on the air-conditioning until at least June. There is a slight breeze from the open window, and she turns her body so that more of it hits her skin. The trailer creaks and settles, and after a few minutes, her eyes close.
Two hours later, the man walks silently down the side of the trailer, the dead ground quiet beneath his feet. He reaches the open window and waits, still, listening to the sounds of the fields surrounding him. Bending, he sets the stool on the ground and then climbs onto it, the additional height allowing him to lean his torso directly into the window. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the long silver flashlight he has stuck there. Leaning forward, he switches it on, moving the beam through the girl’s room, illuminating clothes, a plastic drawer set, and the bed. He slows the light’s movement, playing it over pale legs, pink cloth, until finally it rests on a face, pale and slack with sleep, yellow hair framing it against the white sheets.
Something is bright, hurting her eyes. She squints, moving a hand, and the light disappears and then reappears. Then it is gone, and she opens her eyes to darkness. Out of the darkness, there is a voice.
“Annie.”
“Yes?” She sits up, confused.
“It’s me. See? Come to the window.”
She yawns, sits up slowly, and rubs her eyes, her limbs uncooperative, her mind sluggish and confused. Why is he here? In the middle of the night? At her window? She pads to the opening, the plastic blinds pulled up by her mother last night, the small window barely accommodating his big size. “What?” she whispers.
“I have a surprise for you—out in the car. Be quiet, sweetie, and go unlock the front door. Meet me on the front steps. Don’t wake your mommy, she’ll make me take it back.”
Every part of Annie is instantly awake, trembling with excitement. “Is it a kitten? You know I’ve been wanting a kitty—”
“Shhh!” The sound is harsh, mad, and she quickly stops talking, the next words stuck in her throat. “Go to the front. Be extra quiet and wait on the step.” She nods quietly and turns, tiptoeing out of her room and past her parents’ closed bedroom door.
The man breathes a sigh of relief when he sees her pink-clad body sitting on the step, arms wrapped around her little knees. He is close, so close. He holds out his hand and she stands, rushing forward and grabbing it, her small hand slipping into his. They turn as one, walking past her bike, turned over in the dirt, and on to his car, which sits at the outside corner of their lot, dark and silent in the night.
She realizes something is wrong earlier than he had expected. She had believed him when he said that the kitten was down the road in a box. She had gotten in, fastened the seat belt, and leaned forward expectantly—scanning the fields and approaching roads for a sign of it. But now, six miles down the road, she is silent, her questions less frequent, her face tighter.
“How long before we get there?”
“About fifteen minutes, sweetie. I forgot, I decided to take the kitten to our house instead. It’s there, drinking some milk.”
“But what about my mommy and daddy seeing it? Aren’t I going to get to keep it at my house?”
He reaches over, rubbing her knee. “Of course, Annie. We’re just going to make a quick stop at my house first.” He reaches for the cupholder and lifts out an opened bottle of Coke. “Here, Annie. Drink this.”
She reaches for the soda, her eyes wide. Soda is a luxury not allowed in her home; the few sips she’d had were taken at others’ birthday parties and friends’ homes. She grips the cold bottle carefully and lifts it with both hands to her mouth, the bubbly taste of the soda foreign on her tongue.
He watches her, his mouth curving into a smile. “That’s good, Annie. It’s a hot night. Go ahead and finish it all.”
CHAPTER 47
I WAIT AT the door until I hear the elevator ope
n, Jeremy step on, and the car’s movement downward. Then I open the door and grab the large cardboard box marked FRAGILE. Lightbulbs for my cam spotlights. I carry the box in; swinging the door shut with my foot, I look down at the top of it, at the foreign object stuffed halfway into the pocket of the label.
It is a card, the envelope pink and the words on the front painstakingly neat: “To the Girl Who Lives in Apt. 6E.” I smile at the title, understanding the meaning behind it, its reference to my many aliases. I open the unsealed flap and slide out the plain white card. Inside, the message is short, block writing in blue ink:
I don’t know what’s going on with you, with your whole “I don’t talk to people, I kill them” act. But I know what’s going on with me, and that’s that I can’t get you out of my mind. Please let me in.
Sincerely,
Jeremy
I read it twice before setting it on the desk in front of me. I sit and stare at it, thinking. Then I pick up the phone and call Derek.
He answers on the second ring. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I can’t call a friend to chat?”
“We’re not friends, and we don’t have an appointment. You never call without an appointment.”
“Are you busy?” I feel a flash of jealousy, quick and green, but then it’s gone.
“No. What’s up?” I hear a creak and envision him leaning back in his chair, relaxing.
