by Jay Kerk
Nellie was awake; I heard her rumbling around. She lacked interest in my activities and rarely came down to the basement, especially since I did our laundry.
I received a message on the computer from Dr-Anna45. I messaged back that I didn’t want to have a session that day, but I would pay her. She insisted she didn’t care about the money and she wanted to learn more about me. She angered me by incorrectly describing me during our last session, so I wasn’t sure if I would ever speak to her again, but I hadn’t reached a decision yet.
Vicky and I eventually had sex. Unfortunately, I had to use a rubber, which is against my convictions. Let nature take its course and bear my child. The sex was fantastic, except for her labored sounds of enjoyment and her pathetic attempts to hide her pain. Embrace it.
A few years ago, I would have skipped the rubber. If she got pregnant, I would have left town. Sadly, running away was no longer an option. We used to move a lot, change houses, start fresh, but Nellie said she wanted to settle and grow in her career. Plus, she had fallen ill with something, not life-threatening, but limited her movement.
I was kind to her, took care of her. She had these frequent spastic episodes, after which she could do nothing for a day. I gave her showers on such days, and she cried from humiliation. She said, “If things take a bad turn for me, I want you to take care of the situation.” I asked what she meant, and she said, “Finish it for me.” What a fucking cliché. She was asking me to end her life.
What a drama queen. I comforted her during the episode, and the following day she was fine.
CHAPTER 2:
INTO THE ABYSS
I slept three hours, as intended, and only as much as the body needed. How useless sleep was when we had so much to accomplish in life. For myself and my kind, saving time became more than necessary—it was fundamental to our survival. If we couldn’t live as our nature dictated, we would perish.
I started the day with breathing exercises, to clear the head and make way for planning, and then a jerk off. I stored the semen in the fridge; I would take it with me to the sperm donation center. The chain smoker receptionist would be surprised at the quantity I came back with from the private room. She would say things like, “Look how much he’s packing,” and “Honey, have you been saving it all week?” She would stare at my crotch.
I was donating at two centers. At one, my profile said I was your average Joe. For the other, I forged a hell of a profile for a better chance at being highly ranked and selected. Then the center requested certain things from the donor like an audio recording, a temperament test, and genetic sequencing. As per their profiling, I was an idealist slash entertainer; I could pass any test with the right help. I blamed myself for not thinking of this plan earlier and would compensate by donating to as many banks and centers as possible.
I unlocked the tablet, recorded the date, and wrote:
Of Man and Fear
Before man became the human we know today, fear molded him. The signs of fear in our era differ from the old times. Societies are now driven by fear regarding possessions and social image.
The biggest currency that our original fathers had was fear. They instilled it in others and received it on rare occasions. Those who caused terror in their enemies won before the first strike of battle.
Tell me what you fear, and I tell you who you are.
I fear nothing. I loathe weakness; I prey on the frail; I befriend death.
The computer buzzed announcing a message from Dr-Anna45. The chat room on this secure web erased the messages automatically within seconds of being read or within minutes if not yet read. No trail and no history log.
Dr-Anna45: “Hi, Kevin. How are you? Ready?” Smiley face emoji.
“Hi. Good. Yes, but on the condition that you apologize for the descriptions you used last time, and you promise not to use them. I didn’t argue my case, and I don’t want to hear your science lingo. Save them for your lectures.”
Dr-Anna45: “hehehe. Okay. I’M SORRY. Won’t happen again, I promise you. I assumed you were fine with the terminology.” Folded hands saying please.
“One more thing. You get to ask me questions, but I get to ask you questions as well, and you must be honest. You can omit or replace anything that could reveal your identity. Deal?”
Dr-Anna45: “Deal.” Shaking hands emoji.
“Shoot.” Flying kiss.
Dr-Anna45: “Is anyone in your family like you? Does anyone have any psychiatric illnesses?”
Infuriating. Keep it together.
“This attraction and activity are normal. Society’s current labels are new and inaccurate. They don’t match human history. No one in my family told me they were like me, but I’m sure their genes contained hypersexual activity, but they repressed it. No illnesses of such.”
Dr-Anna45: “How was masturbation over the past week and during the week we didn’t chat?”
“Regular. Four to six times per day. It’s a pity you ask about masturbation instead of sex. Assumptions don’t speak well of your experience.”
Dr-Anna45: “You mean you had something going on in the past two weeks? Do tell. I want to look at each type of sexual activity individually. What material did you use to masturbate?”
“The usual.”
Dr-Anna45: “Porn of underage individuals, right? I’m just confirming.”
“Yes. Women who have biologically come of age but are labeled children. Other times I used the videos of me and my girlfriend.”
Dr-Anna45: “How old is she?”
“Fifteen.” Smiley face. Shit, I hadn’t meant to share this.
Dr-Anna45: “Declaration: This is not my view, but I’ll tell you what science says. You are compulsory masturbator, and it usually accompanies more severe psychiatric disorders.”
“No. I disagree. My libido is different than the regular population’s. It’s an expression of my deep desire to enjoy and multiply. My preference is also different, but I respect and take care of the women I go out with.”
Dr-Anna45: “Stop calling them women!!!” Angry face.
We argued over two points, and I knew I didn’t convince her, but I made solid, logical arguments no one could refute. First, sleeping exclusively with individuals over 18 years has only recently become the norm. Throughout history, girls became women when they got their period and became fertile. After they became women, they were allowed to have sex and to marry. It didn’t matter if they were nine, twelve, or eighteen.
Second, sex with any individual of any age group still happened on a daily basis around the world, in multiple cultures, and even in our country if you were famous and powerful enough to get away with it. Third, my preference was widespread globally. Billions of dollars were spent satisfying these specific desires, and the businesses that satisfied them had all the characteristics necessary to be called an industry. Most importantly, my passion for girls just past the age of puberty burned inside me, dictated by my carefully selected genes over thousands of years. The only thing satisfying my urges was to act on it.
She argued that communities advance and create new laws, and these women were incapable of giving consent. That kind of shit. And she said no matter how intense the urges were, I shouldn’t act upon them. “Like killing, it’s still wrong. Even if you have urges to do it, you’ll face repercussions.” We stopped debating at one point. I didn’t want to dwell on what killing meant to humanity, how it had evolved in form but never disappeared.
Dr-Anna45: “What do you feel when you masturbate, and afterward? What is the feeling that makes you decide to do it? “
“I get a boner. My body signals to me when it’s time. Mate, I’m ready to mate. So, I do what’s necessary. Better than coffee. Happy, relaxed, and focused.”
Dr-Anna45: “No ideas before? No stimulation before? Random boners? Any guilt afterward?”
“No ideas or stimulation at all.” Smiley face, flying kisses. “But I used to get them more often at a younger age, and people laughed a
t my awkward erections. Now I empty before going out, avoiding awkward situations.”
Dr-Anna45: “So are you turned on by their physique or the fact they are helpless and don’t know any better?”
“It matters that they’re at a certain size and form. But for me, I’m in it for the long-term. I love to be around them as they bloom. I have desires to do something to them before puberty, but I keep it platonic. The body changes turn me on wildly. The best part is when the breasts start budding.”
She didn’t reply for a couple of minutes.
“Why are you getting so worked up? Calm down, honey. Aren’t you here to help, supposedly? My turn. Tell me about your wildest sex fantasy.”
Dr-Anna45: “So, do you love your GF?”
“I like her. Most of my relationships aren’t serious. I might call it quits in a couple of weeks.”
She asked me whether spirituality and religion meant something to me, whether or not I practiced. I replied that nothing mattered for me except my urges and constructing my life to make my fantasies come true. I told her we should live to express our inner nature, we didn’t live to the fullest unless we unleashed ourselves to follow our desires, even for violence. Greed, fear, and lust in reproduction drove humanity here.
She argued a lot. I gave her the example of putting a group of teenagers on an island. The result would always be mayhem and sex. She didn’t agree.
Dr-Anna45: “How is your sex life with your wife? Still non-existent?” Smirking face.
Low blow. Fuck you. I’ll kill you, bitch.
“Very slow, but whenever the time comes, I pop a pill to strengthen my fella, I close my eyes, and imagine Vicky.”
Shit, another slip. I panicked for a second. Untraceable though. Never tell her name. Now she has the age and the name.
Dr-Anna45: “Which school does she go to? Pretty Vicky. She must be head over heels for you.”
“Fuck you. We can’t work like this. You’re still trying to report me. It isn’t a slip, I am testing you. Of course, her name isn’t Vicky.” Middle finger and a spit.
I set my chat status to “unavailable.” She sent me a few messages anyway, which I read. She apologized, admitting she had tried to uncover details about my identity in order to report me. I set my status back to “active,” and I lied to her and told her I wanted her help, that I had tried many medications and interventions, and nothing worked. I told her to consider me her brother or her child in need of help. She lost me. I no longer tried to convince her of my superiority among the useless billions. At this stage I only wanted to teach her a lesson.
We agreed on goals—her goals. I intended to fake it all. She said we had to make changes to both my behavior and my desire. She asked me to replace what turned me on with more acceptable alternatives.
My motives changed after this session. I wanted to find Dr-Anna45 and fuck her all night; her resistance and disgust turned me. Afterward, I would take her life.
CHAPTER 3:
KALEIDOSCOPE
I was so excited I hardly slept that night. Instead of my regular, refreshing three hours, one was more than enough. I was out of bed at 4 am, and I kept looking at my watch. Finally, it showed 7 in the morning. The adrenaline made me quiver.
I knocked on the apartment door. The numbers 326, formed in fading bronze, were nailed to the red door. She should open the door. Through the secret cameras, I saw her preparing for class. Some of her luggage and boxes weren’t unpacked yet.
The door squeaked as she opened it: I’d never fixed the hinges. She didn’t check the peephole—careless. That was a point for me regarding my excellent tenant selection.
She was more beautiful in reality than in the pictures on her social media. Hazelnut hair, albeit wet, apparently 5’8” or 9”, green eyes, not chubby but full. I liked that I could look her straight in the eyes without looking down. Regular jeans and a regular top, nothing revealing there. I couldn’t confirm her inclinations, but I was hoping she was her same wild Internet self.
“Good morning. I’m Andy, the maintenance supervisor. I’m here to look into the electrical problem.” She was taken aback. Her reaction was prolonged.
I extended my hand to shake hers, putting the tool bag on the floor.
“Hello. Hi.” She shook my hand. “What problem? I don’t think there’s anything wrong.” Teenagers of this era were generous with facial gestures. I didn’t know why their generation made faces all the time. What a waste of energy. Useless, worthless shit.
I took out a copy of the tenancy contract. “Ms. Laurette.” I pretended to read her name off the paper. “It’s just some burned fuses. Although most of the apartment is lit, some outlets are dead, and a few appliances won’t work. Did you check the whole place?”
She shook her head and opened the door a bit more, her hair still wet. “As per your contract, your apartment must be up to code, and we have to do the check on your first or second day. Can’t be postponed.” I put on a smile. I hoped my plan worked.
“Call me Laurie, please. Yeah, maybe in the afternoon we can go over all of this,” she raised her eyebrows. I didn’t know what the fuck her facial expression meant, so I smiled.
“If I may enter, I’ll quickly show you the affected areas and the box needing repair,” I said.
“Yeah, please.” She held the door open, and as I passed by her, I inhaled deeply to register her smell.
I went left to the kitchen. The apartment was a small place, and I knew every inch in it. Straight through the front door was the living room, which had a huge window with a view of the street. On the right was one door for the bedroom that had a similar window, and a bathroom with a shower.
“Your microwave won’t work,” I said. Afterward, I pressed on its buttons, unplugged it and plugged it back in. “No life in it.” This appliance was essential to students—it was like their mother. Some might have starved if it broke down.
“Oh.”
Back to the living. “The router is working fine, but the signal booster here in the corner isn’t working,” I said, picking up the device for demonstration. “No blinking. The other one blinks. If you use the web in the bedroom or work there, you might have interruptions.” All of them ate, worked, and shit in the bed, which was made for sleeping.
Worthless shits.
Internet was a necessary thing for millennials, like a clean water source. Many asked me about speed details, so I printed out a paper with the details and hung over the kitchen counter to avoid discussion. Actually, the signal booster was for me. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to watch the live broadcast from across the street.
“You mean the Internet?” she giggled. Of course, she didn’t know I said the web on purpose.
I preferred to let people think I was dumb.
You do not fear what you do not see.
“Yup, the one and only,” I said and smiled, fatherly. “This will take about three hours all in all. Then we’ll do a test of all appliances and the network.”
“Ok, sounds good. This afternoon then? Please. I can’t be late, its orientation day,” she said.
“Oh no. Can’t do afternoon, I leave the area on time, otherwise will have to wait for the late-night bus.” I said.
“Can you do the work while I’m away? Please. Just leave the papers for me on the coffee table, and I’ll sign them when I get back.” She did something with her eyes and shoulders that resembled seduction, but which youngsters used when for asking for favors or trying to be cute.
“Oh no, that won’t work. I can’t be alone here with your stuff. I’ve been in this neighborhood for eight years and worked maintenance without complaints, but I learned this way. And we have to do the testing together.”
Take the bait, take the bait.
“But I can’t stay with you. You don’t want me to miss orientation. Come on, Andy.” She prolonged the A in my name; I found it very annoying when they thought playfulness could work. She read the response off my face. “Wait for me, then.
In the afternoon we’ll sort things out.”
“Okay, how about you lock your valuables in your closet or the safe, and I’ll begin the work while you’re in class?” I suggested. She was happy and made a silly small jump.
When I had first started interacting with tenants, I’d suggested they lock their rooms to keep their belongings safe, but that wouldn’t be practical for what I had planned. So, I had convinced Mrs. Sharbadian that mounting a safe in the closet would be a nice feature and give her an edge in the competition for tenants. She had three apartments in the block, and I oversaw everything, including payments. She only had to interview the tenants, whom I recommended most of the time. Laurie was unique, though. She hadn’t gotten this place by responding to one of my ads; she knew the property owner. Fate.
“Your da best, man. You saved me,” she rushed to the bedroom, and I stayed in my place.
I took a breath to raise my voice. “Miss, anything else you want me to do: hang some things? How’s the shower?”
She leaned in from the connecting door, head and shoulders visible but tilted. “Really? You would do that?” She was surprised.
“Usually I fix problems, but nothing prevents me from doing some upgrades. By the way, we didn’t agree on the meeting time today. I should finish before four. What time will you be back?”
I heard a lock snap. Tasty, this will be fun. Can’t wait, can’t wait.
“That’s great,” she said. “I finish around three. I should be home afterward.”
She came back eager holding a box. “Please, can you hang these, a clock and a poster?” She held one up in each hand, and I nodded. “Clock above the TV, and the poster on the wall facing the bed.”
“Consider it done,” I said. People trust a deeper voice, which I reminded myself of, so I repeated what I’d said in a different tone. “Consider it done. Anything else?”
“The water flow in the shower is weak, and the shower head is leaking. I need more flow. You know—stronger. Can you fix it?”
