| The story you are about to read is a work of total and pure fiction. The names do not refer to any actual persons, living or deceased. As a work of fiction, the content is not intended to be considered, viewed or understood as an actual plan or attempt to commit the deeds described. This work is designed for the reading pleasure of consenting adults and should not be read if the idea of non-consensual sexual contacts offends.
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My decision to control them was easily made. I had been watching them for nearly nine months and the conviction that I could make them mine had been with me for at least four of those months. It was only now, however, that this was nearing reality. Within the next few days my life and theirs would be intertwined to such a degree as not to be able to separate them. I would be within their lives and they would be within mine.
Let me begin a bit farther back in time. I have been teased mercilessly most of my life because of a defect in my appearance – a defect over which I had absolutely no control and would have, at any moment in my life, abandoned, if it had been within the realm of possibility. I am cursed with a curiously hideous abundance of body hair. I shall not bore you with the medical terminologies associated with this particular affliction. Suffice it to say that anyone looking upon me for the first time is either immediately repulsed or is so curious that they become rude in their staring, pointing and sometimes, questioning. Every part of my body is covered with a heavy, furry matting of light brown hair. In certain lighting it appears to be near golden in color. For years, I shaved every part of my body that I could reach; but that did little to assuage the curiosity of those with whom I came into contact. Finally, at age 18, I abandoned all pretenses and wore my body covering as armor – protection against the outside world.
Nor will I burden you with tales of my early years – elementary school, junior high, boy scouts, church school and youth groups, community sports teams, etc. My life was a pure example of Dante's vision of Hell, I can assure you of that. There were no friends who would admit to being such; there were no neighbors who would allow their children to play with me; there were certainly no girls who would allow more than a momentary glance at me. There were, of course, the jokes, the giggles, the outright laughter each time I entered a room. Notes passed around, writings on bathroom walls, etc. all became commonplace to me. I learned to rise above them.
All through my early education years my parents had no financial resources to 'place' me in any private school or institution where I could be hidden from the public most of the year. The only time I ever felt at ease was when a professor from the local teaching hospital offered to educate me if I would live in his home and allow him to study me as a medical subject. I actually tried it for two months when I was about 14, but the study came to a screeching halt when the doctor's other 'pets' – two monkeys, three cats and four large dogs – began to behave aggressively whenever I was in their vicinity. I was sorry to return to my own home and school. But I threw myself into my studies and rose to the top of my class. I carried a grade-point average of over 4.0 because I loaded my schedule with every advanced placement and honors class it could possibly hold. I had the idea that if I excelled in academic pursuits, everyone would realize I was as normal under this hair as they were. I could not have been more wrong!
During my senior year in high school, near the end of April, the school board changed the rules for awarding Valedictorian status to a student. No longer would that honor be given to the student with the highest GPA, but now it would be awarded with a student's "future potential" in mind. I did not even bother to point out the redundancy in the words 'future potential' – what other kind of potential is there? I gave up and left school before graduation, never looking back, but for the first time allowing an incredible resentment to build inside me. That resentment was directed specifically at women. I saw women as the source of my difficulty. The girls in my class had made life utterly unbearable during the past two years. All my teachers were female during my senior year. The principal of my high school was female. The president of the school board was female.
There was little doubt in my mind that they had conspired against me. Perhaps I was already unbalanced at this point, but I did not see it that way. I saw that my only avenue to acceptance had been blocked by women. There grew a burning need to punish them, to show them, to educate them about the man who lived under this animal-like exterior.
And the plan began to take form in my mind.
Shortly after my exit from high school, my parents made a momentous decision. They could no longer be the subject of scorn and ridicule, they reasoned, so they sold the lovely vacation property they owned, unloaded every stock they had hoarded, cashed every CD they had invested for my future, took a huge second mortgage on our home and even went so far as to visit Atlantic City several times where they magically continued to win, win, win.
One lovely Sunday morning, after my usual five-mile run (lope?) through the parkland adjoining our property, I returned home to find my parents in the living room with our family attorney. They sat me down, heated and sweaty as I was, and informed me that I would be moving out of their home. I was presented with a lump sum of $270,000 that had been either deposited or invested for me. I was informed by the attorney that with the current market condition, the investments that had been made in my name would allow me to live "comfortably" into middle age, at least. My family felt, he continued, that I would be better off moving from this community and finding a life somewhere else.
While my first reaction was, of course, unbelievable shock, I quickly took stock of the situation and even allowed the thought to creep into my mind of the freedom this money would bring. I smiled at my mother and father, stood up and took the attorney by the hand to lead him to the vestibule. There I looked at him and said, "What are the hidden conditions? There must be some."
He hemmed and hawed for a few seconds and then produced a document, which I quickly scanned. It stated that I would change my name and move to either another city or at least to another distant section of this one; that I would have no further contact with anyone in my family; that I would not call attention to the fact that I was actually the son of my parents; and that I would never request financial assistance from them. Attached to the document was a notarized form, lacking only a judge's signature, that would change my name to whatever I chose. That portion of the form was blank and I was to fill it in according to my own preferences. I pulled the pen from the lawyer's hand, filled in the space with the words Chadwick Crestline, signed the other document where indicated by X's and stuffed the Mont Blanc pen into my own pocket. I smiled through my heavily bearded face at the attorney, obviously unsettled by this, and said, "You're only doing your job. Do you have a card? I may need your services at some time in the future."
With shaking hands, he produced a business card from his vest and I pocketed that, too. "When can I expect the first installment of this gracious bequest? I shall be in need of some pocket money immediately." Before I could even wonder at my own audacity, $10,000 appeared in his hands, in ten small bundles. I laughed, thanked him, stuffed the money into my pants pockets and walked out the front door.
And I have never returned to that house since that day.
All of this is provided for the reader to make certain that you understand my mental state at the time I made the decisions to take my revenge on those I saw as responsible for my plight. I was rational, though probably as mad as the proverbial hatter. I was decisive, though most likely as mentally unstable as any inmate in any state institution you could name. I was resolute in my intentions, though my mind most certainly vacillated between sanity and madness as often as a thermometer rises and falls in a false spring day. I was, simply put, as crazy as a loon. But, of course, I did not see it that way.
It did not take long, nor will I suffer to provide a detailed chronology of events, for me to obtain a small basement apartment in a rather seedy downtown section of our fair metropolis. In addition, I purchased two double-wide mobile homes, although used, in rather decent condition. I had them both buried, side-by-side, so that some five feet of earth covered their entire surface. The 'burial' took place on a piece of scrub land some thirty miles outside of town on a piece of property that I had claimed at a bank foreclosure. The property was worthless at that point, and had no possibility of ever being developed. The two mobile homes, with the connecting wall ripped out, provided me with a hidden lair that was truly impossible to discover. Air venting and plumbing was accomplished through the surreptitious employment of an older contractor who had developed a rather large alcohol dependency, but who had served many richer clients in former times building 'fall-out shelters' during the cold war. I saw it as only a slight misfortune that the contractor met with a very untimely end one night while walking on a dark country road next to the lip of an old quarry.
My lair, or as I came to refer to it, my cave, was sparsely furnished but what was there was of a specific design. My plans for control were deeply sunk into my subconscious and my actions simply fulfilled those plans. There were shackles and chains along the two longer walls at several heights from the floor. There was an assortment of pulleys, cables and eyes in the ceiling, floor and walls. The furniture, if one could call it that, consisted of padded tables, large chairs without arms, cots, benches and hand-made, free-form wooden constructions with padding applied on different surfaces. There was only one available entrance to my cave and it was cleverly hidden beneath a roadside billboard advertising Black Velvet Whiskey. The luscious blonde on the billboard was constantly gesturing with a huge finger directly toward the entrance to my hideaway, and no one ever recognized it.
Deciding on my targets was really quite simple once I began treating my plan as a reality. Prime on my list of 'targets' was Mrs. Jennifer Van-Heusen, principal of Crestline High (in the halls of which my new name had originated). Mrs. VanH was one of those women who oozed power and confidence. There was never a situation that I observed over the years under her tutelage that she was not in complete control of herself. Unlike most 'power females' of the decade, Mrs. VanH was a redhead. She was not statuesque by any means – most likely 5'4" tall and approximately 130 lbs. But her physique was well arranged and not at all out of proportion. Her one outstanding feature was her eyes – glaringly green with golden specks within the irises. I remember being the recipient of her riveting stare many times as I fled through the halls of her school. She was to be target number one, most certainly.
Two additional targets had presented themselves to me on a daily basis while in school. Both had been cheerleaders during our tenure at CHS and had on more than one occasion aroused both my sexual curiosity and my acute humiliation. I will not, as has become my custom here, fulfill the reader's curiosity as to what specifically they did to me, but let it be understood that whatever was to be their fate as targets two and three, they most certainly deserved it. At least, they deserved it within the tortured chasms of my mind. Beth McVickar and Sarah Chambers were as alike as two peas in the proverbial pod. Blonde (of course), blue-eyed, heavy in the breasts, slim at the waists, athletic in the legs and hips. But they were as stereotypically airheaded as any two females could actually be and still remain upright. My plans for them were already solidly founded in my imagination.
Out of the raft of female teachers I had suffered under, I made a conscious choice of Miss Ramada (not the motel). Miss Ramada was an outsider herself at CHS, being black, but chose not to recognize my 'outsidership' and treated me as less than human in her classes over the course of three years. When I describe Miss Ramada as 'black' I am not referring just to her ethnicity. She is honest-to-God black…as shiny black as a smooth piece of obsidian from the depths of some ancient volcano's crater. There are conditions of lighting, which cause her skin to take on such a luster that she appears to be almost blue-black or indigo. Could she be one of the original "Indigo Girls?" Forgive the lame attempt at humor, dear reader; I could not resist. Miss Ramada was large, to say the least. By 'large' I mean that she is about 5'9" tall and approximately 160 lbs.
She was not fat, by any means; just large, with pendulous breasts, wide hips, heavy, muscular thighs and calves that would crush a ribcage if she so chose. And her hair was inordinately long, below the middle of her back; and it was a shiny, silky ebony that I had long imagined running through my fingers. She was a perfectly 'inclusive' target number four.
Making the choice for the fifth target took but a moment of thought. The haughty, pretentious bitch who served as the president of the Crestline Heights Board of School Directors, Mrs. Gloria Whitman, would serve that end quite well. Burned into my memory is the evening I sat in her office listening to her explain to me in the most condescending manner imaginable why I could not serve as Valedictorian of my class. It was probably at that moment that I began to construct a plan for her undoing. I looked across her desk and analyzed what sat there before me. Blonde hair with distinctive red-gold highlights; long, below her shoulders but often turned up into a bun on her head; seemingly quite tall, but really only about 5'8"; statuesque in build with everything in proper proportions; most likely a 35 or 36-inch breast measurement with either a full B or perhaps a C cup; incredibly flat stomach as if she was a slave to crunches or some Ab-developer machine; and the most incredible attribute any woman could hope to have – legs that appeared to begin somewhere near the floor and continue into the stratosphere. Long legs would not be a sufficient enough description for what she crossed and uncrossed there in front of me with that whisper of near-silk. They had made my mouth water at times, even before that evening in her office, and that night I could not tear my eyes away from them in her above-the-knee skirt. She was obviously no stranger to the sun or a tanning bed. I longed to run my fingers along the sleek muscles of her thighs right at that very moment. I allowed her to ramble and ramble about my "shortcomings" and why the "community" could not accept my presence as Valedictorian. I stood as she reached the end of her monolog and looked her directly in the eye and said, "I'll be seeing you around, soon." And I walked out.
To the reader: if this story elicits sufficient positive response, there are several more chapters 'in the can' that I would submit. Please let me know.