Girl On An Elevator

He always got off at the fifth floor, no matter what he was wearing, what his day had been like, whether he was alone or not, or how much he’d had to drink. Even when he was practically drenched in alcohol, he’d always press the right button, always get off at the right floor. Heather liked that about him, since this regularity always meant there was some time for a chat, just typical everyday subjects like the weather, work, the noise of the dog in the third floor apartment... What it would be like to make love... to that Mark Hoffman...

It was a vice of hers, to stare at him, observe every blink of those clear blue eyes, and wonder what it would be like to be lost in sheets and sweat, for him to run his lips and hands, large hands too, nice nails, over her body, the pure act full of precision, slow, steady, sensual. Not ‘having sex’, going through a mundane biological act that barely rumpled the covers, but real ‘making love’, something far more than having him stick his cock inside her. She’d stand there, her blouse, jacket, and skirt all of a sudden too hot and itchy, as she imagined him taking them off, meticulous with each button.

It grew harder to imagine lovemaking with the man with each day, beginning five years ago. She’d heard about it in the newspapers, remembering his name and face well enough to recognize the articles on his sister. She’d been in the elevator with him when he came back from the funeral, not daring to look at him, all of her usual thoughts replaced with a rush of pity, sympathy, sadness. She’d wondered if she should have laid an hand on his shoulder as she told him she was sorry for his loss, not that it would have been any different. He’d shrugged off her sympathies with cold silence anyway.

As the months went on, he’d been like that, less prone to joke with her about the humidity, less sympathetic about the amount of work she still had to do, so very distant, as if still not accepting his sister’s death. He’d started to drink, the smell of the smoke from the bars he’d gone to lingering in the elevator, still morose despite what he must have downed. She would try not to stare at him, looking at the floor, feeling slight guilt as he cried, just knowing he was reliving the funeral, reliving seeing her body.

Sometimes he was sober, still a shadow of his former self, but far less awkward to talk to, even if it was hard to do so, far less awkward to fantasize about. Of course, it was far easier to just go home, haven taken in her daily dosage of close proximity to him, to remember the exact scent of him, sometimes cologne, sometimes sweat, occasionally a mix of the two with soap, to sink back into the bed with that scent of the day embedded in her brain, her hands reaching down to stroke her, imagining her hands to be twice the size they were... God...

She’d noticed something was different, something was strange, when he started to walk with a new energy in his gait, the day he had been released, if she’d read the newspapers right. It was strange, that way; Heather would have thought having his sister’s killer released would lead to an increase in that sadness, in the amount of drink he would consume, that it wouldn’t lead to an almost cheerful demeanor.

He began to smell of grease along with the cologne.

It was nothing, really, to her, merely another scent to sink into at night, nothing. She had no warning.

The rush of blood, his fingers fumbling with the knife, the first he could get, the slick slice, turning his wrist to create a curve, another...

“You going up?” she said, the girl, Hayley, no, Heather. Heather Mayes. That was it, that was her name; she must have mentioned it once or twice, when she wasn’t busy looking at him like her last meal was a week ago.

“As usual.” He smiled, smirking while sober for the first time in what was it, five years. It took five years for him to feel alive again, he might as well relish every second of it, savor the memories of that bastard’s face, of those screams, how every sick fantasy of his had been illustrated in that one moment. Well... sick fantasy about him, anyway.

“Good night?”

“Amazing night, really.”

“Shame about the rain, though.” He shrugged at that, his lips stretching a little further, until the soft smile almost resembled a grimace.

“I didn’t notice that much. Indoors most of the time.”

“Right.” God... the smell of grease was there, sweat, rain, and something else, salty, dark, cloying... He had his back to her, a welcome time to lick her lips, suddenly so dry, shift inside her clothes, suddenly so constricting, escape into those fantasies of him, those lips pressing onto her neck, her collarbone, her breasts... She began to breathe with more effort behind him, as the floor numbers began to increase.

Without warning, between the third and fourth floor, his hand lashed out, fingers pressing the emergency stop button. Thank God for small favors... that this is an old model... no alarm bells for us, now...

“Hoffman? Jesus, what-” she started, eyes wide as he turned to her, stepping closer to her, a hand on her shoulder, the other on her waist as he slammed her against the back of the elevator, muffling her cries with his mouth.

She’d writhed, thrashed, tried to get him off her, she’d definitely fought it at first... She wasn’t sure at which point she’d given up, or why she’d even tried in the first place. God, every fantasy you ever had... Lucky girl...

He could feel her relax, those hands, once satisfied with clawing at his raincoat, now laid on his shoulders as she reciprocated with the kiss. He detached from her, satisfied with the soft groan she let loose as he did so, hitching up her skirt, fingers taking a hold of the edge of her panties. She whimpered ever so slightly as he pulled them to her knees, nails dragging in her skin, closing her eyes as he stroked the inside of her thighs.

“Why?” she breathed, as the rasp of a zip filled the air, his hands pulling down his own trousers and boxers, lifting her legs, spreading them.

Because what good is celebrating the death of the bastard who killed Angelina than a nice, hard fuck with some whore I barely know? “You wanted this.” Well, at least you spoke the truth there.

“H-Hoffman... Oh... Oh God...” He entered her slowly, just as she’d envisioned, her legs wrapping around him as his hands supported her, his mouth sucking at her neck. She cried out as his teeth sank into her, nails scraping at her ass, his hips crushing hers as he rammed himself harder inside her, drumming against the wall with each powerful thrust.

“Little... whore...” he grunted, pulling away from her neck, holding her up with one hand as he gripped a fistful of her blond hair, continuing to force more of himself inside her, any softness he had begun with gone, replaced with a sexual demon.

“Please... fuck... fuck...” The thoughts of him, those screams, rang in his head, harmonizing with Heather’s wails, as her legs tightened around him, almost against her will. This wasn’t what she wanted, this wasn’t what she’d envisioned, but she got it anyway... something more than sex, on a different plain to love... Another thrust, his hand tugging her hair until the crook of her shoulder could be bitten, another red mark on her body... Even as she came, the thought that dominated her mind was disbelief that her clothes were still technically on her body, a body his other hand returned to. He came a few seconds into her orgasm, the hot rush of liquid added to his nails tearing through her skin, drawing blood.

She could bear to open her eyes as soon as he was finished, still inside her, his bloodstained hands still holding her. He gave a breathless smirk, letting her legs down, holding her steady by the waist. There were no words to say, merely harsh panting to fill the elevator, as he slipped out of her, hands still on her hips as the skirt fell to cover her again, while she bent over to pull up her panties, staining them with blood and come. One hand left her, the other deftly patting her ass, as he pressed the button again, letting the elevator continue on its ride up, in awkward, uncomfortable silence. He got off at the fifth floor, as usual. She stood there, legs shaking as he left the elevator, the scent of him lingering not merely in the compartment, but her skin. The doors closed, leaving her alone with her thoughts, her doubts, her fears, sinking into her bed once she got home, her head aching with all those worries weighing her brain down.

She never saw him on the elevator after that night.