1. First Glance

Marcus

People always imagine pedophiles as graying, ugly, pot bellied, sleazy looking, greasy haired guys, weird at a first glance, in thick-rimmed glasses and shabby long mud-colored coats. It’s because every archetype in the human society needs a story, a stereotype that people can use as a label and something to joke about. Ours is most certainly not at all flattering. Worse even than that of fat, stupid, donut eating cops. While it may help in demonizing us as a “species” and discouraging many well-meaning guys from seeking help, it also benefits us, just as the low expectation on intelligence benefits smart, cunning cops.

Us? Yes. I’m Marcus Saevus, thirty five years old, and a pedophile. Among other things. I’m a really fucked up guy, essentially, and a part of being the way I am is being prevalently attracted to kids, especially girls, on the verge and at the beginning of puberty.

I am not grey-haired.

I am not pot bellied.

I don’t wear glasses. Or a long loose coat. Or anything shabby.

I don’t show my cock off in parks and don’t hang around schools with a bag of sweets.

I’m not an idiot. I’m a tech savvy, well-off guy. With a background in computer security, system administration and bits and some coding skills, too. Tall, muscular, with naturally bronze-tinged skin, a very muscular frame, short, neat dark hair, good, white teeth and piercing, intense grey-blue eyes, cold and hard as steel most of the time, I had to spread a rumor about being an ashamed closet fag around the place where I live to stop half the town’s bored, dissatisfied wives from crawling into my bed. I want no trouble with my neighbors. I like my privacy.

I live in a detached house up in the mountains, almost an hour’s drive from the nearest town and hours and hours from anything that could even begin to aspire to being called a city. My house is surrounded by many acres of land that I own, some of it fenced off, some of it a forest with no real boundary, but warning signs all along the edge. The land stretches from the road up with my drive, my house is sort of at the peak of this particular mountain ridge, and then the land slopes back down towards the lake, before rising again, a lot more steeply, into the wilderness and in the direction of one of the US national parks. A quiet, remote place. My kind of place.

The house itself is a very modern, pompous reconstruction of a luxury mansion unusual for this far north in the states, done up in a Greco-Roman style. Marble, pillars, classical-looking statues. You name it, I got it. All taxed and legally earned. My accounts, my work, my whole life at a glance are transparent and clear like a mountain spring.

The few secrets that I have I hide so well that there’s no indication of me having any in the first place.

Like the contents of my NAS drive. Encryption upon encryption and complicated multi-node-access that makes it effectively impossible to hack into (it disconnects from the network when not in use). No one, even with the best technology currently known to man, will ever find and decrypt the kind of shit that’s on there, that to most people would be nauseating and hair raising.

Or the contents of the extensive dungeon beneath the house. Safe and sound like a Swiss-bank vault, walls so thick and solid it would work as a nuclear shelter, it contains a whole set of rooms made to serve as space for the kind of acts captured on the pictures and videos on my super-safe drive. A full on torture chamber, or as I call it, dungeon. A medical ward with containment and quarantine units. A security centre with outputs of all the CCTV from the house and its surroundings, including the dungeon. Offline. Wired. And need I say, encrypted. Not possible in any way to access from outside of the house. A luxury bedroom. An even more luxurious bathroom. A dining room, not quite as pompous; I was running out of space by then. And two small, but extremely high-tech cells the entire surface of which is shielded, shatter proof glass with LED panels behind that can change lightness and color, even stream videos. With closed-circuit air conditioning, plumbing that is a separate circuit from the house. The most expensive part of the house, and I guess, since there’s never been any documentation for it, and since all the materials were bought and paid for anonymously, quite illegal. Nothing in its illegality though to the acts it is intended for.

Today, on this cold, gloomy winter’s day, it’s as empty as it always has been, the equipment very much intact, new. Clean. Waiting silently for a victim to be brought in here.

But I already know who that victim will be.

Laura

I don't know anything about pedophiles. Not really, anyway. In my world they are called "strangers." And I think that the whole thing is more than a bit silly because I would never let one touch me, much less get in a car with one and drive off. I mean, at school they always say "Don't take a ride from a stranger. Don't talk to a stranger. If a stranger approaches you or is acting 'inappropriately,' get away from him and Tell. An. Adult." OK, already. I get it. Strangers are bad. Strangers are dangerous. Like, whatever. I'm just not that worried about it. Why would anyone get in a car with one? They're aren't any strangers around here, anyway.

My name is Laura. Laura Vandahl. I'm 11 years old. I was born on May 15, 2003. I live with my Mom, and my little brothers, Calvin and Jeremy. My parents are divorced. Part of that was because of me. I'm a model, and Mom and Daddy used to fight about it all the time. Mom thinks I can be a really successful model if I work at it. Daddy thought she was pushing me too hard, and didn't like some of the private modeling jobs I was doing. I didn't want them to get divorced, but they did. Almost a year ago. I miss my Daddy. I don't see him as much as I used to.

Like I said, I'm a model. Mostly I do ads for clothing lines and department stores -- you know, different kinds of clothes depending on the seasons. I don't make a lot of money on those but Mom says I'm getting good experience and eventually I'll get noticed. She keeps all the money, anyway, so I just kind of do it for fun.

I even have an agent. But he's fat, and I don't really like him. Lately I've been going to special photo shoots at least once a week. Mostly I wear swimsuits for these shots. Sometimes I bring my dance outfits. My photographer's name is Glenn. He's really nice. And I make a lot more money with these photo shoots. Mom says it will help me get discovered. I really hope so. I want to be a Hollywood actress someday. Or maybe a super model. Mom still keeps the money, though. For my "future," she says.

Even though I do modeling and most kids don't, I'm pretty normal. I'm in the 5th grade at school. I get mostly good grades. Plus I dance and play soccer. I'm not really good at soccer, but I like it. I'm better at dance, but I don't really do it for the competitions. I do it for good poise and balance, which is important when you're a model. Plus it keeps me fit and gives me healthy muscles.

I have a lot of friends and am pretty popular at school. Mostly that might be because I'm a model and kid of a little famous I guess. But I do have some really good friends, like Caroline Parker and Marissa Vargas. They don't care whether I'm a model or not. We're just really good friends. BFFs.

I know I'm supposed to hate having annoying little brothers, but I actually really like Calvin and Jeremy. I think we got closer as a family after my parents got divorced. Anyway, those two are crazy! They have way more energy than me, always running around and being goofy. I'm old enough to babysit now so I watch them when Mom has to go out. I really love them a lot.

Anyway, that's me. I have a pretty normal life, except for the modeling of course. Mom has me signed up for every modeling job she can find, plus the extra shoots with Glenn. I don't really mind, though. It just makes things busy. I have to find time to do my homework sometimes, but I usually get it done. Mom says I have to be "diligent" and "focused." Whatever.

Oh, and even though I'm mostly grown up now, I still have a big stuffed animal collection. There are lots of people who have stuffed animals even after they're all grown up, so it's not just for babies. I have over 30 of them, but some of those are from when I was little and they're not in as good of a shape as the newer ones.