3. Gotcha

Marcus

Three weeks. Three weeks, twelve to fourteen hours a day of work. Tracking your every step thanks to your phone. Reading every text. Eavesdropping on most calls. Facebook statuses. Tweets. Emails. Cameras screening places that you often walk pass and visit. Three weeks and two days in total since the stormy night, but by then I have read your emails and almost everything on the drive of your computer, I've gotten into every single one of your online accounts and found out as much about you as there is to find out. Likes, dislikes. Food, music, everything. It's like my private Big Brother reality show.

The weather is too good for me to do anything, so even though I'm ready for the act, I have to wait. Days plod on, observing your daily routine becomes almost tedious. You're a normal, cute, smart eleven year old girl. Your life is good and fun, but from a pervert's point of view, not that exciting. And while I have a place in my heart for cuteness and childishness, I want you naked, bound, beaten, raped... that's the sort of appeal you carry. I don't give much shit about your school stuff, about Bieber, about boys at school, gggaaaah! It's frustrating as fuck. It's only lucky that I'll soon be able to vent all that frustration. I'll finally open up and stop holding all this tension back. I can do things to you, everything that I desire. And I can beat you until I'm tired and sweaty and spent, my need to hurt fully sated. But the weather is good. I wait. And wait.

You are so good and cute and innocent it makes me wanna puke rainbows. Seeing so much of your normal life makes my fantasies of ramming cock up each and every one of your holes making you squeal and cry fantastic and unreal. Even with all what your phone's camera shows me, which is a lot, but for a pervert of my calibre, odd-angled glimpses of you changing and in your PJs and underwear and such are quite pathetic. I'm not a voyeur. I want my hands -- and other body parts -- on you. I want to put an end to this normal innocent life that you live. I want to replace the focus of school and future career with me and my cock. I wanna take you and break you and use you... and the spring is way too fucking nice and sunny and bright for me to be able to actually do that.

At the beginning I wank a lot, several times a day, to release all the pressure, but in the end I can't any more, it's just too frustrating. Infuriating. Seeing you, hearing you, being a ghost-like part of your life and having no say, no part in it is like a curse. Everything turns sour. Even your sexy pictures don't cut it any more. I turn horny and needy and swear to myself that once you are in here I'll never ever ever wank again, even if that should mean raping you several times a day every day.

I get to a point where I start to worry about my capacity to stay precise and rational and clear-headed. I'll be too tempted to rape you the moment I lay my hands on you. But I know myself better than that. I have a very good grip on myself. Steely self control. It's all annoying, but manageable.

Finally, a night comes after a breeze-less, cloudy, chilly day and the city is shrouded in thick drizzling fog. Visibility is nearing zero, and it builds up. Just pre-dawn, it's actually impossible to drive a car, even with high beams on. Once again dressed in black clothes that leave no traces I retrace my steps from weeks back and collect every single camera, sound-recorder, GPS tracker, every single little bit of spying equipment I placed. I leave nothing behind. When the police scour around, they won't find anything. By the time I'm back in my car, I'm soggy and half frozen from the drizzling that turns into rain as the sun goes up (somewhere behind that nearly impenetrable wall greyness). It even sleets, briefly, the very last hint of snow this year before the warm fit that you will miss, stuck deep, deep, underground in my secret dungeon.

I make an alibi for myself, cover my number plates with fake ones so that no one can link me to the vicinity of the crime scene. I spends hours and hours hidden in the car, bidding my time. Waiting patiently for the right moment. Ready. Ready. Really really ready. It's hard to stay calm. And I'm still not sure, will I use a tranquilliser, of can I just knock you out physically? Or should I gag you and bind you and transport you fully conscious?

I'm nervous.

I'm repeating some phrases that you use a lot, from your texts and emails and stuff, like a mantra, under my breath.

I wait.

It's a long, painful day. It would be nerve wrecking for most, but I'm well trained, well prepared, and after a careful observation of the surroundings I finally settle on a specific plan.

And then I see you. Just as I hoped. Alone. No one in sight. Fucking perfect. My little, but safe window of opportunity.

Laura

My last day as a little girl started off with an argument with my Mom. My friend Caroline was having a sleep-over party starting Saturday, returning Sunday. It was at her family's summer home, and her Mom was leaving in the van with Caroline and whoever else wanted to go at 10:00 a.m. Saturday morning. I had a photo shoot scheduled with Glenn for Saturday, also at 10:00 a.m. If I went to the shoot, I would miss the ride with Caroline's Mom.

All of my friends were going. It was going to be such a fun time! I begged and pleaded with Mom to let me skip the photo shoot -- please! -- or at least drive me up there afterwards. But she wouldn't listen. She told me there was no way I was missing the photo shoot with Glenn, and it was too late to reschedule. What really got me mad was that she wouldn't agree to drive me to Farmingdale afterwards. "I'm not driving an hour and a half just so you can see your friends," she said. "You see them all the time, anyway. You can see them at school today."

"But Mom!" I pleaded. "This is Caroline's summer cabin. Her family's got boats and stuff. We're going to have a campfire. I don't get to do that all the time." But she wouldn't listen. She wouldn't agree to let me go or to take me. "I don't wanna do a stupid shoot with Glenn!" I argued. "It's my life! Why can't I do what I want? Why? Tell me?"

In the end, I stormed out the door to school, angry, carrying my soccer bag and my knapsack, without saying good-bye, without apologizing, without telling my Mom I love her. I didn't realize that it would be a long time before I would see her again. If ever.

School that day was uneventful. Except for lunch, when all of my friends were talking about Caroline's sleep-over and teasing me to get my Mom to let me go. I tried not to get too upset about it, but inwardly I was seething. I mean, I can't miss even one stupid photo shoot. It's my life! Why does she get to control my life and tell me what to do? It's not fair! Nobody should be able to tell another person what they have to do. That's why they stopped doing slavery like 200 years ago. Because it's not fair to people! Uggghh!

Even if I can't go on Caroline's sleepover, I'm still looking forward to the end of school. Today is my second-last soccer game, and then we just have one more week, and it's summer vacation! On Tuesdays I have art, and I really like art because Robbie Waskowitz is in my class. He is super funny and nice, and I love his haircut! He always makes me laugh, even when he's not talking to me. Most of the time he just clowns around with his friends and doesn't talk to me or any other girls. But he looked at me today and smiled, which was nice. He has a nice smile. Only Caroline knows that I kind of like Robbie. But I trust that she won't tell anyone. ("What if she talks about you this weekend, when you're not there, Laur'? Did you think of that? Hmmmm?" I taunt myself.) Thinking about the sleepover that I'm not going to makes me mad at Mom all over again.

After school I took my knapsack and soccer stuff down to the gym, and changed out of my school uniform and into my soccer "kit.". Coach Reynolds always calls my uniform a "kit," which I don't get, but whatever. Truth be told, I'm not a very good soccer player. I play on the 5th- and 6th-grade modified team and I'm just about the worst player. I mean, I try pretty hard, but I miss a lot of practices because of modeling and I know that makes Coach Reynolds mad. But I have fun when I play.

It was actually one of my best games ever. I didn't score, of course -- I've actually never scored a goal in a real game -- but I played really good on defense and didn't make any stupid plays. I was kind of sad because sometimes my Dad comes to my games but I guess he couldn't get off work for this one because I didn't see him. My Mom almost never comes. Sometimes of she's picking me up after the game I'll see her watching the last five or 10 minutes, but she never watches the whole thing. She doesn't even like that I play soccer. I know it makes her mad when it interferes with modeling, but I like it and it's my life and sometimes I get to do what I want.

Anyway, I knew Mom couldn't pick me up after this game because she had Jake Hamm, who is my agent. Hamm is a good name for him because he is really fat. I mean like really super fat. When he gets in his car to drive he has to put the seat way far back, and then he huffs as he kind of lurches into the seat. One time he did that and the whole car looked like it dropped about a foot. Even my Mom smiled at that, but then she flashed me her stern "Laura, no!" look and I had to look away so Mr. Hamm couldn't see my smile. I guess he's nice enough but I don't really like him because he's fat.

So after the game, I changed back into my school uniform in the locker room, said good-bye to my friends, and headed home. It's just about a half mile from my school to my house. I remember that I had my knapsack on my back. I wasn't paying much attention, I guess. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. I didn't sense any danger. The last thing I remember is feeling a prick in my neck, like a bee sting or something. It surprised me. Then everything went dark and I really don't remember what happened after that.