Any sane man in my position would expect the tension. The drug trade is spiraling and the unsolved murders are becoming so common place it should strike me as nauseating but it doesn't. There's really no sane reason why I shouldn't be burdened by the severity of it all but guiltily I can admit I'm not in the slightest. I follow my routines with military precision and I don't flinch when I have to uproot my residence. The motel is just another calm disturbance in an uptight plan. But lately with everything swirling together in succession, all the things I can't control, I feel the pressure of it clawing at my neck; my head hammering with unease and the suffocation becomes too much. All my hysteria manifests because of her.
I hate her. Loathe her from the first introduction. Her very presence encompasses force and it's so demanding of authority I know I'm unfit for battle. I thrive on it anyway because she makes it all so deliciously complicated. It's a small thrill that I cling to in my otherwise monotonous lifestyle. She dominates my waking thoughts so intensely that there's no fight to reach subconscious ones.
And I have no reason to hide behind this mask of uncertainty. I'm the sheriff after all and I owe her nothing but instead of words that fail to formulate I express my hunger with actions. Murdering Bob is just the beginning. I know I love her but it isn't until the juncture where the cold steel of my gun meets his warm flesh that I recognize what this truly is; I've stopped existing and started living only for her.
That night is when the darkness becomes my colleague. It's the solace I crave from the noises and I covet the quiet. I find it when the heat of my bed becomes to much to take, the cotton clinging to my discomfort; heat insufferable, and when the cool night breeze outside my door fondles my skin and the goosebumps appear all too soon, I can't bring myself to fully notice.
I take purchase on the picnic table behind the motel, it wobbles slightly and I vow to fix it for her in the morning but right now I'm secluded from the world and I welcome that simple freedom. Finally I'm hidden under an earthly shadow. It disguises my burdens and the fear that emerges with the threat of another day. There are no noises, no errant crickets, or sounds of rushing cars on the highway, just comforting isolation.
I assume this expanse is meant for families passing through, a place to share laughter and lasting memories, the ones I was not privileged enough to experience. All too quick I take its innocence without consent.
I'm not immediately receptive when the vision manifests itself because it appears without warning. The soft admittance of light cascades onto the vast expanse of territory that is Bates Motel and before I can make myself vacate my position I see her outline in the window. The curtains hung with deliberate intention but flawed in their execution. The sheerness of the fabric creates a perfect picture, one I know I should look away from, but she's just too goddamn beautiful.
There's nothing more than a silken robe; a garment adorned with floral antiquity that punctuates her very existence. The modest blue effortlessly creating the most blissful contrast with her porcelain skin. I can envision my calloused hands, contradicting the smoothness of the silk, rising further, eventually granting myself access to the milky white delicateness I imagine her skin to encompass. The vision swims around me and for a brief moment I am so lost in this dream I almost don't catch her walking out of focus but I do. I hesitantly release a breath only to have it stolen when she returns; her face washed, free of makeup. There is no relief for my lungs. The azure fabric falls from her shoulders then, crumpling into the unknown below the ledge of her window and all at once I am aware that I have never seen anything more gorgeous, more utterly breathtaking than Norma Bates.
It's consuming, terrifying even, and I'm frantic; like a caged animal trying to escape the vulnerability. I fumble to get up, tripping over my feet, the inevitable noise of my body colliding with a trashcan unambiguous. I don't stop. My shame propels me forward until I hear it; her unmistakable "Hello?" pierce through the night.
Heart pounding I press myself to the stone covered exterior of the motel; silently willing this scene to disappear. I feel the brick imprinting on my skin through the thinness of my sleep shirt, flesh on fire with the force I press into it; utterly determined not be caught. I wait for what I perceive as an eternity but in reality its a brief moment at best until the light from her window fades into a memory. Only when I'm bathed in complete darkness do I move.
It's the same every night after. I return to the darkness. The anticipation of another glimpse is all too much and I feel like a voyeur; one of the men I was all too quick to arrest. My own actions are atrocious and I hate myself all the more for it. But its that damn lace lingerie. A simple white bra with matching underwear that becomes my undoing. The garments witnessed without permission burn in memory. Swimming behind my waking eyes and I'm too weak to stop it.
Behind the facade of being a gentlemen I aim to protect her from myself. I twist the nobility of my actions during the day to excuse my behavior at night. I know it doesn't compensate. But I'm conscious enough to know when I've lost. When my underlying morality would most definitely shove itself aside and I would be forced to act out my fantasies into regrettable realities. To ensure it doesn't happen I remain at a respectable distance. Simple gestures akin to extending hands as we pass in public or the offer of nodding acknowledgement as she looks my way while gardening. It's innocent but distance from her is distracting and I'm surprised when it doesn't crack sooner.
It's on the third morning that this impossibility is determined to test my resolve.
It's early, agonizingly so, but I want coffee and I'm not thinking. I never was and with the dawn of day just developing I assumed I could execute my needs without notice. Stepping in the office it was easy to feel her presence in the motel's storage room. The rhythmic tapping of her heels echoing confirmation; it wasn't her son. I contemplated leaving but I could be quick, get in and leave without notice, and I had almost finished, made my skillful getaway, until I stumbled quite literally into my problem.
"Alex..God I'm sorry"
It's then I realize my coffee has already done it's damage. Her blouse changing gradient under the dampness of my clumsiness. I try to offer an apology but it lodges itself deep in my throat when I realize the severity of the situation. I can see the lace. It's the same from that first night. Consciousness fights for dominance and I can feel myself harden instantly beneath the roughness of my jeans and in that moment I contemplate throwing all of this cautious bullshit to the wind and fucking her hard in this miserable office but instead I leave before she can even register my rudeness. I can hear her calling my name, voice rising in pitch, the affronted anger slipping itself in, but I don't dare turn around.
Four days go by since then and I have managed to ignore her completely. No glimpse of blonde hair, no echo of heels, or swish of skirts, and I'm so utterly miserable I can focus on nothing else.
I'm awake in my bed when the rotary phone on my nightstand rings out. Its cries desperate and deafening begging for the release of an answer. It's close to 2 am judging by the partnered alarm clock on the nightstand and I have no sense of who could be commanding my attention at this hour. I begrudgingly answer when the sound of it all becomes too much.
"Alex?" I'm completely caught off guard hearing her voice through the receiver and I know there's no ignoring it.
"Norma what the hell?" I sound like sleep, angry and gruff, a great mask to the concern I don't need her to witness.
"Are you busy?" She says it in the most casual way that I can't help but feel my frustration bubble.
"Why would I be busy at two in the morn...Norma what do you want?" I don't care anymore.
"I have a problem and I wouldn't have called but I..." I don't wait for her to finish.
"I'll be right there"
It takes me no time at all to climb the myriad of steps and it's comical how quickly I become lost; waging a war with my thoughts and a wooden door. I hesitate slightly, deciding on the best course of action and instinct eventually wins over as I turn the nob without knocking. The interior is bathed in quiet darkness and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to their new surroundings; the glare of the porch light a stark contrast. It's stillness does nothing to help me locate her position inside the walls and I'm thankful when light ventures out unexpectedly at the top of the stairs.
"Norma I'm here" I find the statement foolish the minute it leaves my mouth. Who was I even trying to deceive anymore, of course I came, I would always come.
"I'm upstairs. Just head on up" I can't control the smile that slips in as I ascend the staircase. I follow the trail of glowing florescence to her sanctuary and crossing the threshold into her bedroom I find myself confronted with confusion. Even at two in the morning I am so surprised to see her in something so unnaturally her it can't help but be concerning. A grey long sleeve shirt and a pair of sweatpants work to cover her body and I'm so shocked she owns these pieces of clothing that I find myself at a loss for words. It's then I begin to wonder what other secrets she carries.
"Thanks for coming"
"No problem"
She doesn't say anything more than that and I find it absurd at how common place this all feels. Like its completely natural for us to be in pajamas alone, together, in her bedroom. It's a casual normalcy that I crave but I tighten my hands all the same in an attempt to push back my longing. She still offers no explanation of her actions and I know I'm going to have to take the lead on this.
"Norma?" I question it, her, the reason I'm here at all.
"Hmm?" She doesn't even look up from the medial unimportant task she's engaged herself with; not phased that I'm hovering in her doorway.
"What did you need Norma?" And I silently pray to any God listening that my name is the answer.
"Oh right. The bathroom" I can feel my face fall.
She's a whirlwind as she brushes past me and I take that as my only cue to follow her further. I can see what the issue is before I step foot on the tiled bathroom floor. The pipe from the toilet is leaking and the puddle is evident. Surely she could have turned the water off herself, waited until morning for assistance, but that was two things Norma Bates was not; rational or simple.
She observes while I'm focused on my work, my hands busy with tools and determination, and the scent of her is clouding my vision. I can smell her perfume, vanilla and something I can't quite place, and she's so close. All I want to do is nuzzle her gorgeous blonde hair and get lost in her forever.
She leans in, fatally close.
"I know you can see me" It comes out as a whisper; hot and sultry against my unshaven chin and I'm thankful for the floor I'm kneeling on because I lose all feeling. My heart is hammering so painfully in rhythm I have to fight for oxygen. When I turn fully I realize I'm alone in the bathroom and I can't fully rationalize if this delusion is truth. I don't care anymore because I'm past my breaking point. The wrench clatters to the floor in my stupor upon standing and all I can do is seek her out.
Death was always something I'd imagined. An inevitable ending. I'd be alone, hopefully old, and peacefully slip into it's embrace while I slept. I never thought it could strike me as a lucid moment, couldn't comprehend it, but upon entering her bedroom for the second time that evening I was faced with my own mortality. She was going to be the death of me.
Perched on the edge of the mattress one bare leg over the other, she was devoid of earlier clothing and I was left with the blissful nothingness of white fabric and grey shirt. The view I had from afar was incomparable to her beauty this close.
She stood without pause and closed the distance between us alarmingly quick. Hesitantly touching, her fingertips were icy, and a thrill ran through my body at the contact of her tentative touch on my flushed skin. The innocent contact evoked my need for control; control of my body, my thoughts, and my ultimate release.
Her eyes are examining, fingers memorizing the curve of my arms, the indented space of neck, the outline of jaw. She leans in again. Impossibly close this time and without warning it leaves her mouth.
"What I really wanted tonight was you" and when my brown eyes rise to connect with her blue I only see the reflection of her desire. In an instant I'm on her and if she is shocked by my suddenness it doesn't show; her response to my action lacks any hesitation. And this entire scenario becomes rough and unpracticed and I don't care because the only problem I'm having is reaching enough of her skin with my mouth.
My hands are clawing at her body with a hardness that is sure to leave marks but I'm vaguely aware of hers doing the same and I realize I want to be marked. I want the world to know that I'm hers. My right hand drifts up her side, deliberately coming to the curve of her breast, just resting there; teasing. I can sense her anticipation of my touch and while she's distracted and left wanting my left hand drifts imperceptibly lower. I squeeze her ass hard and the moan she elicits reverberates deep.
The fabric of her nightshirt is too big of an obstacle right now and I gather it between my fingers, pulling upwards in desperation. She can no doubt feel the coolness of the room on her exposed flesh but I pause to stare with abandon. She's breathing hard, lips swollen, standing exposed in the very underwear that plagued my sleepless nights, and the sight of her is too much for me to take.
"God you are so beautiful" With my honest statement she pulls my own shirt off revealing her urgency and when her hand initiates contact with my chest I become lost in my own shallow breaths. Without pause she goes lower until she's at the drawstring of my pants. She's pushing and tugging, trying to reduce the strain of fabric and she reaches inside, dipping below propriety and I reach a shaky hand between us to still her movements.
The confusion on her face is evident but I squeeze her wrist to offer comforting protest.
"Please just let me love you" It leaves my mouth in a whispering sigh.
For a moment I think she might cry at the admission. It's an unmistakable watering of eyes that causes concern but I can tell there's relief . I see it plainly in the way her shoulders relax and as they shift with the freeness of it all I think maybe she'll finally let me be her everything. Her emotions continue to manifest, they ghost over her face and turn into ones I can't quite place with all this hovering desire. I perceive it as an echo of love and maybe it is but now's not the time to discuss it.
An errant tear escapes her eyes and I'm caught up in it all but my ears hear her whimpers of want and I wont let them go unnoticed. I shift my arm, wrap it tight around her waist, kicking my pants aside, and pin her against my body. My mouth finds the curve of her shoulders, the hollow of her neck, and I can't help but kiss and suck and bite. In between each action I mumble incoherent words until "so beautiful" is the mantra I manage to repeat into oblivion.
Both my hands find her ass now and her legs wrap and cling in all the right places. I lift her effortlessly, gently set her down into the plush bedding, the action contradicting the roughness of it all, and when she's securely settled my hands reclaim the purchase of her breasts. I squeeze and knead at the soft pert flesh. The pressure of my hot hands causes her to squirm against me. Her whimpers grow louder, evolving into gasps as I take a nipple into my mouth through the fabric of her bra, pinching and pulling the other.
I let my mouth travel farther, nipping and biting down her torso until I reach the delicate elastic. Her sharp gasp shatters the quietness the second my fingers make contact with her sensitive folds. She's wet and my fingers rub harder and her groans increase in volume as she succumbs to my touch. I go deep, then thrust again. My fingers drive into her, hard and fast, make her moan and arch her back. I know how to please her. I somehow know exactly what she likes and how to send her hurtling towards a crushing climax.
"Fuck me," Norma sputters, "please Alex. I want you." Eyes closed she bucks her hips to meet my thrusts. Louder cries escape her slender throat and her soft depths clench around my driving digits, sucking at them, begging for release.
"Ohhhhh..."
Without warning I pull out and pull myself upright. I tell her how much I love her and before she can even blink out a response I'm inside her. My breathing nearly nonexistent as I lean forward; pressing further.
"Please... Alex... I..." Norma releases a guttural moan punctuating another sentence lost to pleasure as I set an agonizing pace within her. My hands venture down her thighs, meeting the juncture of her hips and I use her small feminine body to leverage myself deeper. She's extraordinarily hot and wet and her tightness is perfect. I can feel the sweat forming on my brow; controlling my own pace becomes more difficult. I promised myself during fantasies, ones with my own hand wrapped tightly around me, that I would take it slow with her. That when the time came I would worship at her alter,deliberate, and so deliciously devoting. But I was so damn foolish. Next time I would make it last; There would be a next time; I made it my silent promise.
I could tell I was getting close, it wouldn't be long now, and I let my hand sandwich between us, between my thrusts, and I used my fingers on her once more. With almost one touch her head dropped, her back arched and she clamped down hard, her hands drawing blood on my shoulders. She experienced the intensity of euphoria that her orgasm brought on and just as soon as hers started, I bit into her, her flesh masking my own strangled cry as I hit release.