Copyright©2003 by Rique Johnson
All Rights Reserved
Some say finding Love in someone else takes Forever,
And believe that Forever is unreachable.
My Forever is Today,
My Forever is Now,
My Forever is, I do.
Forever is your smile,
The way it brightens my day,
Enhancing the world with brilliance.
Forever is each time I hear your voice,
The sedating calming effect consumes
me.
Forever is your embrace,
Tantalizing, engulfing, warming my being.
My Forever is Today,
My Forever is Now,
My Forever is, I will.
Forever is the chance you’ve given me to be
all the things I see in you.
Forever is the peace instilled in me
by the presence of your Love.
Forever is our Love that looked beyond the obvious,
Strong, Relentless...Unyielding.
Forever is GOD’s blessing of You.
My Forever is Today,
My Forever is Now,
My Forever is, the Truth in our Vows.
Jason and Julie
March 26, 1988
Julie Roberts embraces the paper she just read against her chest hoping that the very words that enveloped her on the day she married would ease the pain of her heart. She sits in the middle of her bed rocking endlessly, squeezing herself tightly as if to force the words through her skin, to the heart, to be consumed by her soul. The crackle from her actions awakens her senses. In a panic state her arms fling open, the poem falls to her lap; both hands cover her mouth with the fear of damaging it. She lays the poem on the bed and tries to undo the wrinkles in the paper with her palm before carefully placing it back into her photo album, simultaneously recalling how sentimental Jason’s voice was when he read it to her on their wedding day.
Tears swell in her eyes, and then roll deliberately down her face, induced by the haunting reality of losing her precious Jason. Her saddened expression conceals her model beauty, high cheekbones, petite lips and hazel green eyes. As if she were abruptly snatched from her position, she springs to her feet and rapidly paces the floor, allowing her near-perfect figure to be silhouetted by the sunlight entering through the bedroom window. A troubled voice buried in the deep corners of her mind taunts, "I told you so," sending a feeling of sorrow throughout her entire being. Years gone by bring on the realization of her life's greatest mistake of leaving the only man that truly loved her inner-self, not just her outer beauty.
Her body yearns for his gentle touch. One administered so softly and soothing it makes her skin melt uncontrollably. A touch that she remembers being generated by genuine love and not the heavy lustful feel that most men have served since she left Jason. The agony she feels burns deeply inside her, creating turmoil that flows through her veins like poison, making her even more determined to win back his love and affection. Experience through time has proven to her that he is the only man alive that can bring a sense of peace within her.
"I have to let him know exactly how I feel," she expresses loudly. "This time I'll get my point across because once he knows that my heart never left him, we'll be one again. The awful things I did to him won't matter. I'm sure of it. This is a new me talking. I'll be the perfect wife, his prized possession."
Across the nation for a select few, people’s lives become a possession of another, controlled for the last few moments before their existence terminates. They die ungrateful for the time they did live, but only acknowledging the terror that reaped their hearts and minds during their last minutes of turmoil. Such a thing happens in Virginia City, the most promising city of Virginia. Burglaries and other mayhem run rampant; far too often a rapist that kills his victims and remains anonymous establishes himself as masterful. This one slated by the police as the invisible man plays a game of cat and mouse, defying the authorities as they wreck their brains seeking a clue to his identity.
Often, more in recent times, he lies on his bed and acts out his ritual before stalking his prey. He stares at the ceiling until imaginary objects dance in his deranged mind, controlling his every thought. Swiftly his head darts erratically from side to side. With his belt and pants still fastened, he lowers his zipper and works his hand through the slit in his briefs; he pulls the weapon of choice out and fondles it until an erection occurs. Squeezing tight while making up and down motions with one hand, with the other, he pushes the speaker button on the telephone sitting on a nightstand next to the bed. He pushes another button and the telephone dials automatically.
"Hi," a cheerful voice says, "I'm Candy and I've been waiting just for your call. First, I need to tell you that my job is to talk and excite you; all you have to do is enjoy, obey my commands and say nothing. If you understand this, respond with silence. So, for the next few minutes we're going to have some adult fun. I can tell that I can get nasty with you. Hum, you're already hard. Great, because I'm soaking wet just thinking about your hard dick. No need to kiss me, give it to me, slide that hard thing into my wetbox now. Make me feel like the bitch I am. Oh, yes," Candy's voice pants. "I want it all. Deeper, baby, deeper! Fill me with your hard . . . throbbing cock. Baby, you feel so great, I know you feel my wet pussy all over your hard dick. Harder . . . yes . . . push harder. Yes!"
With each of her voice commands, he continues his hand motions while simultaneously moving his weapon forcefully up and down the height of his zipper causing several places to trickle with blood.
"It's working . . . I'm coming," Candy cries. "Yes, harder. I'm coming. Baby, I'm . . . oh . . . oh . . . umm," Candy pants as she reaches her make-believe ecstasy.
He moans once before his weapon fires, sending several long stringy shots high up over his head which he then attempts to catch with his mouth. He jumps to his feet suddenly, picks up the handset, then repeatedly slams it down yelling, "Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!" while Candy concludes phone sex. Afterwards, he showers, puts on a change of clothes before setting out to stalk his next prey.
These women walk the red-light district streets. Self-proclaimed professionals in the art of lovemaking. They have willed themselves the masters of men. Women destined to fall short when climbing the ladder of success, yet determined to succeed in their chosen profession. Some wear very short skirts and halter-tops while others wear bikini panties, a garter belt with stockings and a lace bra. They all wear high-heeled pumps, strutting to advertise, shaking their goods while propositioning men that pass by them and stopping some cars on the street. Rejections are plentiful, especially for the lone one or two freelance artists working their territory on the opposite side of the street.
He stalks these prizes, carefully selecting a woman who might resemble Candy the way he’s envisioned her. Approaching one who is above-average looking, he admires her long sexy legs and large but firm breasts. After a brief conversation they begin the several block walk toward her pleasure haven. She tries to engage in small talk but he reminds her to save it for later.
"I betcha you want me to talk dirty, don't cha?" she replies with a Southern accent. "Don't worry, baby, I'll put some cheer in that voice of yours."
His expression is empty, cold. It would send chills down the average person's spine.
"I can tell you're nervous," she says while grabbing his rear. "We'll put a smile on your face."
They turn into a semi-dark alley and approach a vehicle parked between two dumpsters. It's a pickup truck with a medium-sized camper in the cargo area. The camper’s interior is basic, containing a fold-down bed, a small refrigerator, a tiny sink in one corner and a trunk with a blouse sleeve hanging out of it. She turns on the lime green colored bulb hanging inches from the ceiling and lowers the fold-down bed. It occupies most of the camper’s living area, leaving only enough room for them to stand bent over at the waist.
"Now, let’s see what you have for me," she says, simultaneously grabbing his member. "You're gonna have to do better than this. We can’t get our cum on without this guy’s cooperation. So, just relax and let me bring him to attention."
"Talk dirty to me," he finally states.
"I knew you were that type," she lies. "The quiet ones always want the nasty talk. Lay down."
She lowers her mini-skirt, leaving her bottom bare. He admires her short but well-groomed bush. Next, she pulls her teddy over her head and tosses it playfully onto his face. Her medium-sized frame boasts large breasts with oddly-sized nipples. He picks up the teddy in one hand and rubs the soft silk tainted with her fragrance at his throat. Her eagerness to please him shows as she tackles his belt and unzips his pants. Lowering his garments below the knees, she straddles him just below his semi-loaded weapon. Her body moistens one of his legs.
"Do you feel that? I'm ready," she says while fondling him. "We'll fix him right up. He will be standing tall in less than a minute. You just need the touch of an expert. Have you ever had your cock sucked with ice in the woman’s mouth?"
His face continues to be expressionless but his mind reaps excitement with just the thought of it.
"Did my wetness surprise you?" she boasts while rubbing her moneymaker on his leg.
"Do you kiss or talk better?"
"Honey, I fuck much better than I kiss but my kisses are known to drive men wild."
She leans forward, determined to make her strange trick’s night one worth living. Instead, she finds herself gasping for breath, fighting to remove the teddy he has clutched around her neck. His powerful grip tightens. She bucks wildly, pounding his face and chest in defense. Her fair skin turns shades of red as she aimlessly tears at the garment, reminiscent of a rodent scratching through a paper cup. Her neck bleeds profusely, torn jagged by her adrenaline-aided strength. His struggle for dominance along with her fight for freedom has them tumbling across the limited space of the bed. The victim's eyes widen, on the verge of exploding from their sockets. Veins protrude from her face and neck while beads of sweat roll down her face. As life leaves her body, he flips her over, gaining the dominant position. In the process her head hits the light source causing it to swing back and forth, hypnotizing his staring eyes. His mind drifts from its conscious state to la-la land as his imaginary objects crawl inside the camper’s walls. He mounts her motionless body and instantly his weapon loads.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch!" he yells as his weapon fires.
Afterwards, he wraps the teddy around his index finger and shoves it into her moneymaker and writes with her discount mart lipstick, "She wanted it," across her semi-naked body. Covering his tracks, he uses her skirt to wipe the camper clean of evidence of his existence and escapes unnoticed.
The next morning a huge pale white trash truck with its metal praying mantis arms suspended and folded over the cabin approaches the pickup truck. While the driver empties both dumpsters he notices that the camper's door is open. Losing to his unrestrained curiosity, he investigates the camper for signs of trouble.
The police arrive on the scene. The once abandoned alley is alive with vigor. Several police cars block both ends of the alley with other officers securing the immediate area. The coroner, a forensic team and a couple of unmarked cars surround the victim’s pickup truck.
The officer in charge is Captain Frank North. He's a tall silver-haired man, distinguished-looking with a reputable face. And, he just happened to be in the immediate vicinity when the dispatch for all cars in the area to report to the crime scene was announced, making him the senior officer present. The trash truck driver shares his knowledge of the incident, and then is soon released. The coroner examines the body before Captain North grants its removal. The forensic team dusts for prints but finds no signs of the killer's true identity. The only incriminating factor is the location of the woman's teddy. Captain North and police officers from the neighboring precincts recognize this as a trait of the murder-rapist deemed the Invisible Man.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch!" he cries while slamming down the phone on Candy again.
That same morning, before business hours, the killer stalks his next potential kill. His keen eyes watch from the faraway corner of a shopping mall parking lot. The lot is empty except the cars arriving minutes apart, each perceived to be owned by store managers. He spots a prime target turning into the parking lot from the main street. This car satisfies a couple of requirements to strike his next prey: one, it is large enough to hold him and his prey; and two, it contains a woman driver. He would have preferred a van to fuck and kill his victim, but the imaginary objects tell him that the station wagon with dark tinted windows in the rear will do nicely.
He walks toward the vehicle as it turns into a parking space. The woman notices his approach from across the parking lot but brushes off any thoughts of trouble based on his appearance. A clean shaven, well-dressed man in a fitting two-piece suit arrives simultaneously as the woman exits her car. She is Mrs. Juanita Smith, a very short petite woman in her mid-twenties with short dark hair, pleasant features and wears a blouse and a flowing skirt with many pleats.
He clears his voice, preparing to falsify his tone, "Excuse me, Miss, I'm Stephen Day," he lies. "I hate to trouble you but may I borrow your tire iron? I have a flat tire on the other side of the mall. Unfortunately, mine can’t be located. I searched but it’s nowhere to be found."
"Murphy’s Law," the woman jokes attempting to ease his stress.
"That’s right. Wouldn’t you know it, I’m going to be late on my first day of work."
"I'm not sure I have one," she replies while heading to the rear of the vehicle. "Which store do you work in?"
"Oh, Hecht’s," he responds quickly, choosing a name at random.
She raises the back glass and lowers the rear door, then folds down the seat allowing her access to the cargo area. She begins to open the trunk compartment when suddenly, he grabs her with one hand covering her mouth, and the other with a knife pointing at her throat. Immediately, fear consumes her igniting an instant tremble throughout her body.
"Listen, bitch," he directs using a new tone. "If you want to survive, don't fucking fight me. Don't yell, don't make a fucking sound. Just crawl into the back and you'll live through this."
Initially, she resists his forceful effort to guide her into the cargo area of the vehicle, but she is quickly reminded of the seriousness of her dilemma when he seizes a hand full of hair, pulls her head back and uses the pointed end of the knife to make a tiny puncture at her throat. As blood fills the cut, she surrenders to his wishes and begins to crawl into his temporary haven with him following closely behind.
The thought of her demise reaps her mind like a raging storm bringing on more frantic trembles, extreme fear and strong survival instincts. Before he gets the majority of his weight into the car, she swiftly kicks one leg backward—reminiscent of a donkey’s kick—connecting the spiked end of her shoe’s heel into his chest. The impact of the well-timed maneuver sends him flying to the pavement gasping for air. The bewildered woman exits the car and races frantically toward the mall’s entrance. In a short moment, he gathers his breath and composure, rumbles through the contents of her purse and flees in the opposite direction holding his throbbing chest.
Inside the safety of her work place, she telephones the police and tries to relax from her hysterical state. When the police arrive, two rookie officers question her and gather the information on the incident. Their persuasion tactics fail with Mrs. Smith refusing to come to the station to look at their photo books of known criminals. The officers leave with only her statement and a clouded description of her attacker.
For more information, you can email Rique or visit his site at http://www.riquejohnson.com:30000
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