This dark little thing came to me one day when I was working in London. I walked past something that labelled itself, with a remarkable lack of discretion, as “The Spy Store”. I began to wonder what domestic users would use this kind of kit for. This story was the result.
© Mike Kimera 2000
I’ve seen you many times, on buses, in local shops, buying coffee (tall skinny latte double-cup) at Starbucks. I’ve noticed details of your appearance and your posture and pondered them, quietly and continuously as I lay next to my sleeping wife. You are younger than me and people notice you. Your energy shouts more loudly even than the brightly coloured clothes you wear on your good days. Your depression and disappointment announce themselves in the slope of your shoulders and the fingers running distractedly through your hair.
The police would find no pictures of you on my walls, no unposted letters to you in my files, no stolen underwear under my mattress. And yet I am collecting you; putting you, piece by piece, in my belljar.
A sociopath, they say, is someone who understands the consequences of their actions, is able to conceive of the impact of their actions on others, and yet commits the actions anyway. More difficult to detect than the psychopath, these men, and they are nearly always men, manipulate the people around them in order to meet their strongly felt needs for control.
That seems to me a bloodless, weak, unempathic description. Let me explain. We sociopaths act BECAUSE we understand the impact of our actions on others. It is this impact which gives the act flavour and purpose. The shiny happy shallow people who surround us like shoals of minnows escape for the most part by not being worthy of attention.
You caught my attention. All of it.
The layout of your house is available through a search of the town planning records. I wonder which of the two bedrooms you sleep in. The larger, I decide, the smaller will be your office where the computer you love so much lives.
You left your keys in your front door one day. Wasn’t it kind of me to return them to you? You gave me one of your friendliest smiles. You almost remembered my name.
Your career is beginning to bloom. Your agent tells you that Bantam is interested in your book outline. But what has really made a change to your life (and will make an even bigger change – one you could not possibly predict – one which would drain the joy from your face if you anticipated it) is the new man in your life. Handsome, witty, charismatic and – oh happy day – working in television.
In Europe, the surveillance equipment that is restricted to Federal agencies here is available over the counter: powerful microphones that pick up every sound and fit inconspicuously behind electrical sockets, video cameras that fit into motion detectors just like the ones you had installed last month as part of your alarm system. My trips to our offices in London this year have been most instructive.
Yesterday, Sunday, you looked so happy kissing him good-bye. His first full night in your bed – at least in this bed – although I have imagined you and he as a tangle of sweaty limbs and stained damp linen. I have imagined it in detail.
My wife worries about my insomnia. She says I spend too much time in front of the computer. Last night I kissed her and told her to get some sleep. Then I returned to the video images on my screen, using headphones for the sound so I won’t disturb her. I am a considerate husband.
Restraints, gags, nipple-clamps, all the bondage toys that are so freely available over the Internet. Who buys them? People like me and you?
The shack out by the lake was my wife’s idea, ask anybody. An isolated spot where we could spend pagan weekends away from the kids. I’ve been spending some time there recently, fixing it up, making some modifications to meet my needs.
Tonight my wife left to visit her sister for a couple of weeks. I’m packing a bag full of toys. I’ll be spending some time at the shack. I jingle the newly cut set of keys in my pocket. The video on my computer screen shows that you are sleeping. I knew you would sleep in the nude. You’re that kind of girl.
Hotmail is a free and convenient e-mail system but you should always remember to log out. Simply moving to another web page leaves an open door anyone might pass through. An e-mail from your account to your agent says that you argued with your boyfriend last night and that you need time alone. You’ll be back in a couple of weeks.
The image of you waking, tied to a frame, penis gag in your mouth, blindfolded, vibrator in cunt and arse, has filled my mind for some time. I wonder how your scream will sound when the pain starts. I wonder if you will recognise my face.
Let’s find out.
© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from email@example.com
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