| June, 1979 Brick by brick, her body became less visible. He applied every brick with care, to lovingly cover the open air spaces inside of the wall until she was almost framed. He would then pause and take a moment to revel in his date’s beauty…frozen in eternity, framed by bricks, her silent serenity did for him what no playboy pinup could. The hefty dose of valium he’d given her, along with a couple bottles of Chianti ensured that he could take his time with his bricklaying project, her burial site. This part of the game was his favorite. It was the climax, the culmination of months of smiles faked, interest feigned, and money spent on some cunt. Whenever he got weary of hearing about her long day, or of hearing about how he treated her so much better than her husband did, he thought of this moment, when he would have her exactly how he wanted her. Alone, enshrouded by moonlight, and finally fucking quiet. As he laid each brick on top of the other, he knew that this was the payoff to months of hard work. He was in final lap of his race, and it was time to unleash the sprint he’d been saving. Would he be successful again, or would the sun come up from behind and flood his secret project with its burning light? There were other factors to consider as well… would she awaken in time to save herself? (never) Or in time for him to savor her expression as he laid the last brick into place, forever hiding her lovely face from the world? (not likely, but delicious on those rare occasions) Would the rest of his construction crew arrive in the middle of his project? (dare to dream! What a challenge it would be to dispose of twelve strong, able-bodied men…a tingle began to shimmy up his spine) Brick by brick, his mind and emotions whirled. He loved his game, loved his art. His double life was the punch line to a joke that only he’d heard, and he spent most of his days smirking at those who knew Joe the Contractor. Every day, Joe rose, kissed his sleeping live-in girlfriend (the cunt) and kicked their little French poodle on accident. When Joe went to work at the contracting company he owned, he was “the boss” and “the man.” Always first on site in the morning and there long after everyone else had gone home, his dedication inspired those lazy sons of bitches he employed. The fact that no one could see behind his mask brought a twinkle to his eye and a spring to his step. Not even that cunt in his home could sense that he loved her like a broad you met in a bar and fucked in the back corner that night. . Whenever his contracting company required him to travel, he’d find a way to mix business with pleasure. By day, Joe met with potential clients, studied blueprints, negotiate. At night, once those tiresome routines were finished and every idiot had retired to his hotel room, he’d go out in search of somewhere to play his game. He’d find a moderate-sized bar, usually low-key and slightly secluded, and begin to scout it. He’d return to it regularly, charm the patrons, and tip the waitresses generously, but beyond that, he would never give a cunt any attention. After a month or two, he’d choose the woman he wanted to court. His tastes were particular. She had to be beautiful, engaging, and slightly vulnerable. She also had to be hiding a wedding ring in her purse (and they were so easy to find, with the slightly guilty yet determined look in their eyes). He knew how to build a woman’s trust. A little wine, a flash of the Rolex (their eyes always got big at the sight of money), and a kiss goodnight on the cheek ensured that she would be begging to see him again. He would insist on waiting to have sex. They had to know each other better first, or she had to be sure she was willing to take this step. Being with another man outside of her marriage was a serious decision, and he’d hate to be the one to pressure her into doing something she’d regret. By the time he and his date took their romantic getaway (always near one of his construction sights), she’d be ready and so would he. It was time to admire his handiwork. All that was uncovered of his date was her pretty painted face. He had taken his time with this one, really loved her right. Valorie, or Vivia, or something. Whatever. Her wavy red hair shone in the effervescent glow of the full moon. The green eye shadow he’d dotingly applied gave her face an eerie quality. Her supple red lips pursed and emitted a slight sigh. His lower body tinged from the sudden tightness in his pants, and he wondered if he had time to relieve himself before inserting the final brick. He checked his watch. Two twenty two. Plenty of time. These nights were his favorite, when he could consummate him and his date’s relationship properly. He hated the nights when he was rushed, when the bitch somehow saw the syringe filled with valium, or had a high tolerance for expensive wine. Those nights required more charm, more Chianti, sometimes a stiff blow to the back of the head. It wasn’t that he minded the extra physicality; what man sees getting physical with his date as a problem? But more often than not, the exertion and the sight of red blood trickling from a lipsticked mouth excited him to a level that he could not control, which often resulted in a lot of time wasted and the feeling of disdain that follows when sex happens too soon. He could no longer love his date, couldn’t frame her, couldn’t give her one last kiss. He could only break his back and race the sun as he hurriedly wrapped her in plastic and threw her in the back of his pickup and raced to his most secluded construction site. Once there, he’d treat each second individually and try to get sixty things accomplished in a minute. Stop the truck. Get out. Unload the truck. Don’t hit the bitch’s head on the door of the cap. Stuff her in the wheelbarrow. Go. Watch the ground. Don’t trip over the twigs. Don’t snag the wheel on a stone. Make a way through the trees. Clearing. His site in the middle of the foliage. House skeleton. How appropriate. Enter. Find a wall. Begin. Dump the bitch. Apply mortar. Lay bricks. Apply mortar. Lay bricks. Check time. He would repeat this bricklaying process until the bitch’s tomb was sealed. After thoroughly cleaning up, he loaded his pickup again and drove home. He wasn’t worried about the cunt. She was used to his crazy hours. She understood that, be it because of business trips, or the long midnight drives he liked to take with his fire orange ’67 thunderbird when he couldn’t sleep, there were going to be nights that he spent out, and that didn’t affect their relationship or his love for her (at which point he’d stifle his laugh by coughing). Plus, it didn’t hurt that he often came home from these nights with something shiny for her. He fingered the silver tiffany charm bracelet he’d slipped off of his date’s delicate wrist. The heirloom she’d received from her grandmother was about to be passed down again. He kept an extra stock of boxes and ribbons in the cab of his pickup so that his trinkets would appear new when he presented them to the cunt. She would wake and her eyes would light at the sight of a tiny box that undoubtedly boasted a large price. She’d be all over him then, and as she rode his cock, he’d watch the silver from the bracelet that dangled from her arm mingle with sunshine in the room, creating a kaleidoscope of colors on the wall, and his body would buck. He’d grip the cunt’s hips and plow through her. It was a rare occasion that he didn’t have to concentrate on maintaining an erection when he was going through that particular relationship motion. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy sex; he just preferred it his way, with his partner framed by bricks, the only point of light in an otherwise black night. The coolness of the wall he leaned on pierced his hot skin like he’d fallen into a pit of his own discarded valium syringes. Afterwards, he’d float from the last drop of valium on the tip of a thousand discarded needles. “Hey sweetie,” he whispered into the cunt’s ear as he slipped into bed. “Mmph,” she murmured. He laid the red box with the green ribbon onto her pillow and kissed her cheek. He was exhausted. His muscles ached, and he was satisfied. Yes, it had been a good night. |
