I was watching your house for about a week before doing anything, learning your outdoors habits and movements. Your spare key I took at the start of the second week and the equipment I've secretly installed in your house, microphones and cameras, has let me uncover so much. I've seen you entertain, observed your lovers, and looked on as you've enjoyed yourself. I am watching as you send away your latest paramour, your hair still in that 'just-fucked' look and toned body wrapped up in a thin robe. The lights in your house go out one-by-one after he leaves and I emerge from my van, crossing the street.
Once inside I pause, glancing around the hallway. You aren't shy, framed holiday selfies lining one wall, and I step closer to focus on a particular picture, standing out even amid the others. You're posing on your knees in a barely-there pink bikini, lips wrapped around a lollipop, and are gazing up at the camera, eyes wide with mock innocence. I'll take it with me as a souvenir.
Moving away from the provocative photos I enter the kitchen, quietly and thoroughly searching your drawers and cupboards. I decide against sticking anything into you though, even the wonderfully sharp carving knife you have. It'd be a shame to ruin a body like yours. I collect a small cushion from your living room as I pass, feeling its weight and being satisfied, before softly climbing the stairs.
Which room you claim as your bedchamber is obvious, its door adorned with a childish-looking sign bearing your name. There isn't a squeak as I push the door open and for the second time I pause. You're lying curled up on the bed, duvet cast carelessly away, and gone is your robe, indeed all you wear is a minuscule thong, its string disappearing between the fleshy globes of your ass.
Even as I watch you roll onto your back, lost in a very pleasant dream if your erect nipples are any indication, and I advance, taking the cushion in a firm two-handed grip. You sense my presence at just the last moment, hands coming up to grab my wrists, but you're still exhausted from earlier activities and sleepily confused. The cushion fits over your face perfectly and I apply pressure as you flail with all your limbs and strength, meagre compared to mine.
Eventually your struggles slow, movement becomes less coordinated. I continue to smother you, not letting up until you desperately arch your back and thrust well-formed tits at me. You limply fall back against the bed, a final full-body shudder running through you, and I remove the cushion. Your lips are slightly parted, eyes partially lidded, and when combined with your spread legs you make a seductive invitation. I refrain from partaking however, retrieving my phone from a coat pocket and taking several photos, attaching them to an email to be sent later.
I leave you lying on your bed and make my exit, taking the incriminating cushion with me. I again peruse the hallway selfies, plucking my chosen favourite from its place, but it is another photo that gets my attention. In it you are on another beach, in an equally small bikini, but it is the young man who has his arm around you that I focus on. It takes me a moment but I click my fingers as I place where else I'd seen him and I glance up the stairs with a wry grin. Lovers are a terrible thing to have. Some might turn out to be the jealous type.
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