The wise man consents to everything, for he identifies himself with nothing. An opportunist without desires—EM Cioran
I never even knocked her unconscious. I used to use stronger drugs to knock girls unconscious, carry them to the crate, lock them in the chair, and let them wake up alone wondering what the fuck happened to them and where the fuck they were.
But, over the years, the process has improved. You've probably never been injected with a large amount of Benadryl unless you've needed to be subdued in a psychiatric hospital (as I have) but a large enough shot of Benadryl will neutralize even the strongest male. An even larger dose will put him to sleep almost instantly. But I didn't want to put Miss Anna Miller from Lehighton, PA to sleep. I'm fifty-four. I don't need to be carrying unconscious bodies of unsuspecting young women anymore than I have to—which to me means that I only carry them when they're dead (and even that I avoid). With a hundred milligrams of Benadryl, a girl Anna's size will let me support her with one arm and she'll just walk with me wherever I want us to go. Unfortunately, that's the crate.
The crate is a shipping container I bought from ol' Samson when I first moved here—he charged me fifteen-hundred bucks. It was just taking up space on his property and—believe me—I've gotten way more use out of it than Ol' Sam would have in this time.
I had my arm under Anna's shoulders.
"What did you give me?" she says.
"Benadryl," I say.
"Why did you give me Benadryl?"
" 'Cause I want you docile. I don't want you running away."
"Where's your barn?"
"You know I don't have a barn. Do you see a barn?"
"Well where do you keep the pigs?"
"I don't have any pigs."
She wrenches free of me and falls right over. She's crawling through the gravel.
I pick her up and get one arm under her shoulders again.
"I couldn't run," she says.
"That's the whole idea," I say. "We're just going to get you in the crate and then you'll wake up. Don't worry, you'll be fully conscious and have all your motor skills back in about seven hours."
"Seven hours?!"
"You're very strong to even be able to stand. For a girl your size, I'm kinda surprised you're still conscious."
"Why are you taking me to the crate?"
"I'm taking you to the chair."
"Why are you taking me to the chair?"
"So you won't run away again."
"Can I get my bag?"
"I'll get it for you. You wouldn't be able to carry it now."
"You're sure you'll get my bag?" she says.
"I will get your bag, don't worry."
I walk her around the side of the house, supporting most of her weight now. She's slipping into unconsciousness—I should have used 80 milligrams.
We come to the crate.
I unlock a seriously heavy-duty padlock—the kind you can shoot a rifle at and it remains unharmed—and open the doors to the crate. I carry Anna in. By now she's asleep and I have to use both arms to get her by her shoulders and her knees. The lights are always on inside the crate. On the left are my tool cases I described earlier. On the right are the butchery tools. All cabinets and drawers are locked. On the far end is a large-screen TV. In the middle is the chair. And from the ceiling I have all sorts of hooks and pulleys—whose uses I'm sure you can imagine.
The floor slopes outward and a simple gravity-based drainage system takes liquids into a well I dug in my back yard when I bought the house. There's a hose with a spray nozzle also attached to the ceiling. It runs hot or cold water at the specification of a couple of flat plastic buttons—one red, one green.
And the chair: the chair is a stainless steel gynecological chair I have modified with a network of one-inch holes drilled through the metal so that a person can lie on it and have somewhere for their sweat to go. There is no padding—only steel. And there are custom-machined clamps at the ankles in the stirrups and the wrists along two arm rests. There is also a neck clamp—but I don't use that unless I have to.
I lie Anna in the chair.
I take off her Skechers. She's wearing thin white socks with penguins stitched into them. I take those off.
I unzip her jeans, wriggle them off her body.
Her panties are plain pink silk with a polka-dotted bow at the top front of the waistband. I pull those off.
Her vulva is unshaved. She has the thinnest layer of soft brown hair—so thin it isn't even wiry. I can see her thin pink labia. They're simple—the kind of vulva where everything is packed in neatly under the outer lips.
I toss her jeans in the corner under the TV with her Skechers, socks, and panties.
I pull her shirt off over her head, over her ponytail.
She's totally knocked out.
Her nipples are pierced—simple rings—and she has a tattoo around her neck but underneath where a shirt would sit. It's something in Elvish and naturally I don't read Elvish but I assume it's the thing about one ring to rule them all etc. etc. I hate those fucking movies.
I toss the shirt with the blue stars under the television.
I adjust Anna's arms and legs so they're in the rests and stirrups.
Her skin squeaks against the sterilized steel.
I remove the white rubber band from her ponytail.
I remove her earrings—seven in all.
I remove her nipple piercings.
These I put in one of my tool chest drawers, the piercings and the rubber band. I carefully check her body from the top of her head, through her hair, under her arms, between her ass cheeks, between her legs (cursory check) and all the way down to her toes and the bottom of her feet. I have learned from past experience that you want to make sure these little girls don't have lockets and necklaces and even Band-Aids or stitches anywhere on their bodies as such things can be ingeniously used against me in a variety of ways. Also I need to know if they're a cutter. An increasing number of girls these days commit self-harm and now that they're under my care, their self-harm is under my care, too. I mean I have to fix that shit up before I just go hacking away on a girl. She could bleed to death before her time. Also, she might want to die. And the last thing I want to do is kill someone who already wants to die.
Anna's skin was clean. No cuts. No scars. Some birth marks on her inner right thigh. Small. Nothing that would turn me off. The tattoo I thought was tasteless but what are you gonna do? I would have to get used to it.
I locked Anna's ankles. Locked her wrists. Decided to let her neck stay loose for now. Would lock that down if she got wild on me.
Then I queued up my movie on the flat screen and waited.
While she was sleeping, I got used to the feel of her body. I ran my hands through her hair, loosened up what had been a ponytail and felt how soft and young the strands were.
I touched her ears. When I put my fingers inside them my dick got hard.
I opened her mouth, closed it, gave her a kiss on the lips.
I touched her nipples and, even asleep, they hardened. My dick got rock hard. I imagined them with the rings in them and how you could bite them and pull on her nipples while making love and I saw myself doing this and when I saw it, I saw myself as a boy her age, not as my actual self, my actual age.
I leaned down and bit and licked her nipples and wondered if Anna was dreaming. I thought of what it would be like for her to wake up in this place and I thought of how much more difficult it would be if she had just been lost in a blanket of sex dreams, the image of her and some boy she liked from Lehighton, PA. But there would only be me, and she would find me hideous.
I kept my fingers away from her pussy as a way to tease myself of all the things we would be doing with that later.
And I touched her legs—shaven—all the way from her inner thighs (which must be the softest place on a woman) down to her toes and the soles of her feet. Her toenails were pained a chalky blue that roughly complimented the blue stars on her nipple shirt. You know if she hadn't worn that shirt she might not be in the crate right now.
But she probably would be.
Anna slowly comes to life.
The first thing she does is look at her wrists and flop her hands around. Then she flexes her legs and feels that they won't move. Then she looks down and sees that she's naked. Then she looks to her left and sees me sitting there on a stool.
Then she screams.
She screams her bloody head off.
Then she screams some more.
She wrenches her neck side to side as she screams, apparently thinking that will help her screams go farther or be louder or something.
Then she wears herself out and her voice is hoarse—I mean hoarse—when she finally speaks to me.
With her loose hair, and everything about her exposed, and her voice all but expired, she is godlike to me.
She looks around the room, nice and slow. Spray hose. Television. Tool cabinets—all drawers closed and locked away. Her pile of clothes on the floor in front of her.
"How long are you gonna keep me here?"
"For the rest of your short life."
I smile.
Something in her face goes away—I think some form of that hope we were talking about earlier.
"Sorry, but I thought you'd prefer the truth."
"How long are you gonna keep me alive?"
"For as long as I'm having fun with you, I guess. I mean, think of a cat playing with a lizard. It isn't a matter of hours and minutes for the cat, is it? He just plays with her as long as she's fun to play with—or until she dies, whichever comes first. And let's be honest. Just because the lizard dies doesn't mean playing with it stops being fun for the cat. My cats will play with a lizard long after she's dead. So I guess the moral to the story is: be fun!"
"Stop!"
"Is what I'm saying bothering you?"
"Are you gonna fuck me after I'm dead?"
"Probably. A couple of times. While you're still warm. Does that bother you?"
And Anna lets out a scream to rival all the screams I've heard in my career. I mean it shakes me..to think of how much it bothers that little brown-haired girl that I'm gonna fuck her after she's dead.
I stand up and go to the TV.
I turn around and look at her, legs spread, pussy exposed and ready for me to do anything I want to it, Anna's hair wild, her mascara running tears of black down that pretty little face.
She's down there, and I'm up here—that's just the nature of the world. I control her like I control my TV—she has no say in the matter.
And I know in the coming weeks I will hear hundreds—thousands—of cries of protest. And not one of them will change what I do to her. Not one of them will stop me.
But she'll make them anyway—thinking she can change the world.
But Anna can't change the world.
The world is owned by people like me.
And people like her are ants.
They don't consider, when they get off the bus in Pain, South Dakota, that someone like me even exists.
Even with all the true crime shows she's watched.
I'm of a different species.
I'm looking at her all over—my property.
"Well," she says fiercely. "Are you gonna fuck me?"
"No," I say. "I have a movie I want you to watch first."