Natalie (pars una)
Contrary to that which you may have come to believe about me thus far, I am neither blind nor immune to physical beauty. I have desires like anyone, though mine admittedly tend to necessitate the spilling of liberal amounts of blood and pain. But Natalie was among the loveliest women I’ve ever seen. Blonde hair spilled in waves over dancer’s shoulders. She had large eyes the turquoise of a Caribbean sea. Her body was glorious—taut, toned, and lithe. Her breasts were perfect—as spectacular as any that could be manufactured, but (and I happen to know) exquisitely real. She was as near to flawless as I’ve ever encountered. And I wanted her from the first moment I saw her.
Natalie was also a magnificent sociopath. Married to a moderately notorious and well-paid attorney, she never wanted for anything material. Nor physical, as I soon learned while stalking her. Her (very) personal trainer, her masseur, and a girlfriend she met often for a cinnamon scone and a soy mocha latte with caramel drizzle kept her plenty occupied in the bedroom. She had very few discernable patterns that I could exploit, seeming to act on every whim, and at any moment. She was a rare prize, and one that required a rather direct approach to obtain.
One of the things that horrible, beautiful Natalie could be counted on to do most days was run her dog along a convenient wooded path. I took to jogging in the opposite direction, so that we’d pass each other along the way. At first, I just gave her a rakish smile and a polite nod as we converged. Did I mention I was shirtless? Natalie was more than a bit obvious about her appreciation—ravenous would not be too strong a word to describe her stare. Subtlety was not a tool in her belt. I waited a few days to build her anticipation, then met up with her again at a different point in her jog. This time, I slowed as we approached one another, as did she. Her eyes flowed over my body like water. I feigned an interest in her dog, bending down to pet him. The stupid beast reveled in my attention, with about as much intuition and sense as Natalie herself had. If he was meant to intimidate predators, he was useless.
I introduced myself and shook hands with her. After a pleasantry or two and a few shared lascivious glances that lingered a few seconds too long, I bade her a good evening and left her standing on the path. If I know anything, it is that anticipation can be an exceptionally intoxicating drug. I waited another full week to produce our next meeting in the cover of the woods. As the last time, we both slowed as we neared each other beneath a thick canopy of leaves struck through with beams of warm sunshine and the sounds of content nesting birds. I gave her idiot mutt a scratch under the chin and smiled at her—almost convincingly, I think. I handed her a small piece of paper with a phone number on it.
“No pressure, but give me a call sometime if you want.” She would call. I was sure of it. She managed to wait two days.
Our meeting was simple and clandestine. Neither of us wished to be seen with one another. I picked her up and took her to one of the very few places that I can call my own and where I can play entirely as I wish.
She wore a tight tennis outfit, and (I was fairly certain) nothing underneath. Her eyes were icy, but held the desire of a starving person gazing on a feast. We’d barely stepped inside when I pushed her ferociously up against the wall. I kissed her. She pulled me into her, pressing her body against mine, holding the back of my head as our tongues explored. The hardness of her nipples slid against my chest through our shirts, which were quickly removed and tossed carelessly on the floor. She was every bit as flawless as I had believed. Not a mole or freckle blemished her silken, evenly-bronzed skin.
Her left hand drifted down my chest and under the waistband of my jeans, her enormous diamond ring catching on the denim hem. She didn’t have to go very far. I was rock hard in anticipation of our time together, and her fingertips grazed me immediately. She growled appreciatively in the back of her throat through our continuing kiss.
I slipped a hand under her skirt and a finger inside of her in a single movement. She sucked in a breath and moved her hips, then shuddered—the first of many such to come. I didn’t even notice her unbuckling my jeans until they’d fallen from my waist, a denim pool around my ankles. She slid down the wall and took my cock into her mouth like she was starving. She was quite practiced—exceptional, in fact. I hardly had to call up any bloody memories at all before I spasmed against the back of her throat and she drank down everything I had to offer, which was substantial. I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, where we continued to consummate our newfound relationship without a single spoken word.
She was insatiable and incredibly powerful, wrapping her leg around mine and flipping me over so that she could control our pace and her pleasure. Her hands worked at her body every bit as much as her hips worked at mine. As she got close to orgasm, she emitted a low growl that grew in intensity and decibel until it ended in a small roar when she came. She was a sight to behold when she climaxed—her tight muscles trembling, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her veins prominent beneath the sheen of sweat that covered her skin. I could see her pulse in her throat, and feel it on my cock. She’d then lie atop me, squirming a bit, pressing her brilliant sweaty breasts against my chest. She’d kiss me feverishly for a moment, then force me to roll so that I was again on top and in control, while she’d move her hips expertly to whatever rhythm I chose. Then as she neared her next orgasm, she’d flip me yet again and take over.
This went on for nearly an hour until her internal spasms squeezed another forceful orgasm from me. She could feel it, and hummed as I released inside of her. She was breathless and trembling. A droplet of sweat hung from the bottom of her chin, trickled down her arched neck, onto a perfect breast, and then onto me. Her blond hair was wet and dark and clung to her face.
“Thanks,” she said casually, and climbed off of me. It was the first word either of us had spoken, with the exception of a handful of unintelligible exclamations we’d made as we fucked. She collapsed onto the tangle of soaked sheets beside me for a few minutes, catching her breath. I watched as her respiration returned to normal and the sweat evaporated from her unblemished skin. Her legs shook when she stood, and she laughed contentedly as she made her way to my master bathroom. She threw me a towel before closing herself inside, as if she’d lived in my house for years and this was something we did all the time. After a minute I heard the shower running.
Short of killing, Natalie was the closest I’ve ever come to real pleasure. I actually considered letting her go. I went to the kitchen for some ice water, and left a glass for her on the sink in the bathroom, taking a minute to admire her shape through the translucent shower curtain.
I really did consider it. Briefly.
When she came to, she was on the Wall.
