This is a fantastic story I read a loooooong time ago on xhamster. The original author has since deleted their profile and no longer exist with no continuation that I know of. It's a long read (will be split into 4 parts) but worth every second. Just a little warning this story is not for the faint of heart. Read at your own discretion. Enjoy!
- Present day –
I poke two fingers between the venetian blinds and peer out through the gap into the night. The sights of the city are accompanied by the erratic flickering of blue and red police lights and several harsh white beams coming from the encircling SWAT helicopters. I look down and see that the parking lot and streets below are blockaded off by cop cars and police barricades. There also appears to be snipers placed strategically on all possible rooftops. Amid the whirling lights and lethal guns, poised with careless magnificence in the very centre of the parking lot, stands a slim brunette, clad in uniform black with a megaphone to her mouth. She stares up at me, and even from this distance, I can make out the smug, self-satisfied expression twisting her features.
"Bernard Halek! This is Detective Evelyn Davis. We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up!"
Great, I think dryly, but whats option two?
Sighing, I close the blinds and lean heavily against the wall.
What the hell went wrong? How could it have come to this? I thought I was so clever, always just one step ahead. I was so very careful. Apparently not careful enough, I think bitterly, studying the gleaming steel of the Smith & Wesson revolver in my hands. I know I am fucked this time, and fucked good.
No way out. No more chances.
With a humourless smirk on my face, I retreat back into the center of the room, far from the windows, wondering if there is anything I would have done differently had I the opportunity to do it over again. A moment later I shake my head. No, Ive come too far, enjoyed myself too much to have regrets now. All things must end eventually, the good, the bad and, in my case, the especially vile.
I approach the group of terrified hostages sitting huddled along the back wall. They keep their head down as I pass, not wanting to catch my eye. Clearly, there is no one about to play the hero in this particular crowd. Lucky for me, I suppose. I pace the length of the room trying to think, but the persistent cry of the sirens and whirling buzz of the choppers outside crowd my head.
What to do? What to do? What to do?
Nothing. I am trapped like a rabbit in a hole and theres nothing I can do about it. Guess, it's time to pay the piper. Time to face the music. Time to quit with these tired clichéd phrases.
As I feel the end closing in around me, I find my thoughts wandering back to where it all began, with my advent love so very long ago. Half-remembered images, vague and full of light fill my minds eye.
Silk-smooth hair, black as midnight drifting in the summer breeze; a pair of dazzling eyes blue as glacier ice; silver clips on glossy black shoes
Monday, April 2nd, 2007 Boston, Massachusetts USA
Anabelle, such a lovely name. Smart. Sophisticated. French
And she is all of these things, but so much more. She will be wearing her catholic school uniform when she comes out, her luscious, raven hair past her shoulders, loose and tossing in the breeze. The graceful movements of her slender figure so easy and refined, as she turns to call good-bye to her friends
I watch for her, waiting in front of the exclusive, all-girl private school, but she will not recognize me, minimal as my disguise is. Her world does not include people like me, well, people who do the sorts of things that I have planned. I pretend to read a magazine as I wait in the black sports utility. I am going for inconspicuous: dark glasses, dark hairpiece, dark thoughts lumbering through my head. I check the front doors of the school again. Sunlight streams in through the clear glass panels. Adolescent girls hang around the stone steps and along the railing; talking, texting, tapping their feet impatiently as they wait for their overdue rides. No Anabelle. I look at the digital clock.
3:39
Where are you, my love? Mon petit chou?
Anabelle is a sweet girl. Yes, that is the best way to put it. I have never seen her lose her temper, raise her voice at anybody or even stand up for herself. She is quiet but attentive in class, and never raises her hand to answer a question, though if asked, she always answers correctly. She is soft-spoken, kind to a fault and her brilliant blue eyes give her the look of a lost faerie child, or maybe a timid nymph. One could just pass her off as extremely shy, but there is far more to my Anabelle than that. She has a certain fragile quality about her that brings to mind a rare, precious treasure that, if handled too roughly, could shatter without any warning.
This delicate sensibility of hers can only be the result of her over-bearing, over-protective father. William Reynolds II is the executive director of the international conglomerate NovaTech; a multi-billion dollar company that makes everything from electric toothbrushes to rocket fuel for NASA. Calling him rich is meaningless; his net worth rivals the total GDP of some small countries. Mr. Reynolds (even I call him that) treats his family as he treats everybody else, like property, there to do his bidding and make him look good. His dazzling wife and lovely daughter are with him at all public events and photo shoots, all smiling, all apparently happy.
Anabelle, ma belle, plays the faultless dutiful daughter, always on time, always getting good grades, always doing what she is told. She knows who I am of course; I am her French professor, Monsieur Halek, the benevolent, older gentleman who is always so polite to his students. She likes me, I know that much, and she often comes into my office during lunch for after class lessons. I am very gracious to her, taking into account her gentle nature and patiently explaining to her verb conjugations or the plus-que-parfait tense while my heart races at the exquisite torture of her nearness.
Did I mention how luminescent the smooth skin of her face is? Or the incredible softness of her candy pink lips? The luxurious sheen of her obsidian hair?
Did I mention she is only eighteen years old?
I would often lean over her shoulder and smell the sweet bubblegum scent of her breath, warm and irresistible as it wafted past my face. She was an angel. I would call her that, mon petit ange, tell her that she is the loveliest girl I've ever known. It means nothing of course, not really, not to her. Anabelle smiles and says, merci, mais vous êtes trop bon, and that would be that. I would give her innocent pats on the shoulder when she arrived at the correct answer or affectionately caress her arm in encouragement when she grew frustrated. I think she imagines me as something of a kindly uncle she never had. But to me she is the world.
Ive been following her for over six months now, and know her routine perfectly. At first, stalking Anabelle was simply an amusement, a forbidden pleasure I would indulge whenever the need arose, and it would arise quite regularly. I enjoyed the effortless grace of her walk, perfectly balanced like a dancer, or was it more like a regal princess? Such elegance is hard to define. When she went out with her family to a restaurant, I was there, sitting across the room from them, from her, observing the way she took her small, dainty bites. She had a small dainty mouth, I noted. Enchanting.
Some days I follow her to her swimming lessons, and, veiled behind the anonymity of sunglasses, gaze down from high in the bleachers as her pale, sleek form cuts through the water. My jaw clenches as I watch her emerge from the pool, wet and dripping, water streaming down her long legs. I have even followed the Lincoln as it shuttles her home to towards Beacon Hill where large, extravagant mansions housed the wealthy and the ever so important.
After months of this sweet torment I realised it wasnt enough anymore. I wanted to experience her fully, completely, unrestrictedly. I wanted to run my fingers through her thick cheveux noirs, kiss that special, scented spot where her neck met her shoulder, feel her supple body yielding beneath mine, exquisite submission. It was driving me mad to be so close to her and yet so very far away. I felt I was dying daily, piece by piece, being near her but unable to touch her, but I knew that should I ever leave her my world would instantly collapse. So resolved, I knew what I had to do.
I waited until her father was away in Europe on a business trip and her mother in New York visiting her pregnant sister. They were often away like that, leaving little Annie alone in the house but for the maids and butlers.
It is Monday and Anabelle is expected to be leaving with the band to a musical recital. Just before the last period of the day, I went to the band teacher, Mrs. Lawrence, and told her that Anabelle was unfortunately feeling unwell and would be going home early and so miss the recital today. Mrs. Lawrence was very sorry to hear this and bid me 'make sure to tell Annie to get well soon'. I assured her I would.
I found Anabelle in the library. Her backs of her smooth calves peeked out from under her tartan skirt as she tried to grab a book that she couldnt quite reach. "Here, darling, let me get that for you." I brought the book down and handed it to her.
"Thank you, Mr. Halek," she said, giving me a beaming smile. My fingers itched to caress the freckle by her ear. When she turned to leave, I catch her by the shoulder. I could feel her vibrant heat through the thin fabric of her shirt.
"Anabelle, I received a message that Im to pass on to you. Your mother has returned early from her trip and wants to attend your recital. She will send Thomas, your driver to bring you home and you'll go to the recital together with her. So be sure you don't take the bus with the other girls, okay?"
"My mother is home?" Anabelle asked, confused. "Did something happen? Is everything alright?"
"Yes, yes, my dear, everythings quite alright. She just changed her mind and wants to be there when you stun them all speechless with your playing." I smile reassuringly, drinking in her fresh beauty with my intent gaze. "She'll be waiting for you so do try and come right out. Alright?"
Anabelle nodded her head and thanked me again.
The bell rings.
So here I am, humming nervously as I wait in the Lincoln I rented just for my insidious purpose. The butterflies in my stomach seem to be having a lively garden party. There are so many things that could go wrong. What if Mrs. Lawrence calls to check up on Anabelle? What if Anabelle recognizes me? What if her parents really do come back home early and Im charged and convicted? Somehow, I do not think I have it in me to last in a state penitentiary for very long.
I grip the steering wheel very tightly and nearly jump out of my skin when the backdoor of the SUV pops open. I watch surreptitiously in the mirror as Anabelle tosses her bag and violin case on the seat and climbs in. I release the breath Ive been holding in and slowly pull out of the lot.
As we head south through the city, I keep checking the mirror to see what Anabelle is doing. She is reading a novel I assigned just last week, Les Misérables. She appears to be half way through it already. Yes, one could call her a keener of one chose, my studious little biche.
The closer we come to my house the more agitated I become.
Almost there. Almost there.
I check the mirror again then start when Im met by a pair of sapphire eyes staring directly back at me.
"Youre not Thomas. Who are you?" Anabelle asks, sounding puzzled but not frightened.
"Um, Im the substitute. Thomas is sick so Mrs. Reynolds has asked me to pick you up instead."
At the mention of her mother Anabelles focus is diverted. "Did mother say how her trip went? Did she see Aunt Louise?"
I smile. "Yes it went quite well. There is even a surprise waiting for you when we get home."
Anabelle smiles and absently looks out the window.
"I thought we were going home," she comments a little while later as she looks out at the Charles River. "We are going the wrong way."
"Just have to make a quick stop and pick up something for your mother. Dont worry well be home before you know it."
Anabelle is quiet for the remainder of the ride, but as I watch her in the mirror I can see her getting more and more apprehensive. When we finally enter my subdivision, the sun is setting and the street lights are already on. I check the dashboard clock as I pull into my driveway.
4:12
"What are you doing?" Anabelle demands, the first tell-tale signs of worry edging her voice. I open the garage door and back inside without bothering to answer her. I turn off the car. "Please, whats going on?" She asks again. Her voice is small and scared.
I get out and go around the car. Pulling out the plastic bag from my coat pocket, I open it up and unwrap the cloth soaked in chloroform. I take it and open the backdoor where Anabelle is watching my every move with round eyes.
"What are you doing? What is that? No, NO!" Anabelle shrieks and bats ineffectually at my hands as I try to grab her wrists.
"Stop fussing, silly. This wont hurt at all. I just need you to calm down for a moment–"
But it does hurt when Annies small fist connects with my face. "What the hell?!" I back away for a moment and feel my nose. My fingers come away with a little blood. I grin at her holding my nose. "Didnt know boxing was one of your talents, Annie. But well have to discuss it later. Right now you need to sleep."
I grab her shoulder and shove the cloth up to her face, covering her mouth and nose, forcing her to inhale the fumes. Anabelle struggles weakly for a moment then goes limp in my arms. I put the cloth back in the bag and toss it on the seat beside her backpack. She hardly weighs a thing as I pick her up and carry her inside. I go over to the living room and lay her gently down on the sofa.
I study her as she lies there unconscious. She has on her uniform: navy blue blazer, white shirt and tie, chequered skirt and pristine white stockings. Her shiny black loafers have little silver pins on them. I like them especially.
I go into the kitchen and grab a tissue from the counter to wipe the blood from my nose. My unexpectedly volatile Anabelle, I reflect with wry amusement, always full of surprises. I decide to make a pot of tea while I wait for her to wake up. Returning to the living room, I sit down across from her so I can sip my tea and watch the subtle, rhythmic movements of her breathing. I watch as her eyes flutter. She wakes up slowly, shifting lethargically as a soft moan escapes her mouth.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/31elad/just_plain_hal_1_bd