Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74581 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74581 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I saw it when we met.
She’s frightened of me.
But I intrigue her, too.
She’s read about men like me, or at least she thinks she has.
She chose to work with criminals for a reason.
She gets a thrill thinking she can help us. Reform us.
Clare is about to learn a harsh lesson.
I can’t be helped, and I can’t be changed.
Clare, on the other hand, is soft clay, unformed… she doesn’t know what she really is. But I do…
I was wrong to think she was a fawn.
Feeling her frantic heart beating against my chest, I realized she is perfectly suited to her name—a little bird, easily ensnared so she can’t fly away…
A bird that can be captured and trained.
Of all the things I observed about Clare, the one that interested me the most was what happened after she disappeared from sight.
She failed to report our encounter.
Which tells me a very useful piece of information about the crusading doctor.
Though she may look polished and earnest, the consummate good girl, it seems that Ms. Nightingale is not opposed to bending the rules. Especially under pressure.
And it just so happens, I’m the fucking Mariana Trench of pressure.
I imagine telling her to open her mouth. How those soft lips would part, and that little pink tongue would extend…
Then I’d lay my cock on top of it. I’d slide the head all the way inside her mouth, my hand wrapped up in her hair, just like when I grabbed her in that tiny room. I’d hold her tight so she couldn’t escape and pump into her mouth over and over again until I exploded…
With a groan, I erupt all over the back of my hand, imagining coming directly into the little doctor’s mouth.
The come flows out in spurt after spurt, a surprising volume built up in my balls from the hour I spent in her presence.
I lay on my back, drained but not satisfied, because I want what I was picturing. I want Clare on her knees in front of me.
And I begin to plan how I’ll make that happen.
The next morning, I conduct a second experiment.
I use my one hour outside of solitary to reconnoiter our new shrink. I discover her phone number, her home address, the university from which she graduated (Columbia, of course, just like I guessed), and the make and model of her car.
And then I call her.
The first part of the test is to see if she’ll answer.
The second is to lay out the bait: I give her an order. A simple, seemingly innocuous order.
I tell her to accept a shift at work this morning.
She likely would have accepted with or without my phone call.
But I want to see if she’ll do it after I tell her to.
Will she arrive at 11:00, as I commanded?
Or will this tip her over into reporting me to the prison authorities?
I need to know exactly how far my little bird can be pushed.
Because if she’s curious…
If she’s stubborn…
If she comes pecking after my breadcrumbs…
She could be very useful to me.
I’ve often thought that I don’t possess the usual range of human emotions. So many seemingly common experiences are utterly foreign to me. I’ve never felt the need to wear a Halloween costume, or visit Disneyland, or coo over a baby, or watch a reality TV show.
Even situations that are supposed to elicit extreme emotion—like the first time I pulled the trigger of a gun while the barrel was pointed at a man’s chest—I simply felt… nothing.
When I do experience emotion, it’s as bright and keen as the blade of a knife. It slices through me, leaving no doubt as to what I feel.
I hear the clank of my cell door opening, and the guards calling out, “Rogov… psych appointment.”
And I’m hit with a bolt of pure, electric excitement.
She’s waiting for me.
Sure enough, as I enter the cramped, gray office space once more, Clare Nightingale is already seated, her expensive briefcase sitting next to her chair, her manila folder arranged at a perfect 90-degree angle to the edge of the table.
She faces me boldly, defiantly.
She thinks she’s here to reclaim her power.
Today she’s wearing a dark button-up shirt and trousers, all impeccably tailored. She’s covered wrist to throat to ankle, and yet this is not as plain an outfit as yesterday—she’s trying to project an image of dominance. Her hair is a shining knot at the base of her neck.
As soon as I’m chained in place at the table she says, “What is your intention in manipulating the time of our meeting? In calling me at home? Are you trying to threaten me?”
“Clare,” I say. “I would never try to threaten you. I would simply do it. And you’d have no doubt of the message.”
I see her flinch at the use of her first name, though she attempts to repress it.