After a week and a half, Chandler struck.
It was a warm and breezy Saturday afternoon and the weatherman on Channel 3 was crowing about Indian Summer (whatever that was). The previous few days had been cold and damp, and the people of Royal Woods took the opportunity to enjoy what could possibly be the final nice day before next spring. Chandler left the house shortly before noon dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a light denim jacket over a black T-shirt. Tendrils of sunshine crept across the front yard and filtered through what was left of the leaves, its light dappling the ground with coins of brilliance, and before Chandler made it to the street, his forehead was sheened in sweat.
At the end of his street, he turned left onto Caswell Place, a quiet lane of uber-modern homes screened behind lush trees. He shoved his hands into his pockets, lowered his head, and sped up. He had to be quick about this. He might miss her.
As he walked south, he brushed his thumb across the switchblade in his jacket pocket. It was but one of many trinkets he brought along to offer his princess: The inside pockets bulged with fun things for them to try out once he got her alone.
An electric thrill ran up his leg and his hand closed around the knife.
He couldn't wait for this.
Turning onto Ridgedale Drive, he slowed. The houses fell away and dense stands of pines pressed against either side of the street. To the left, a chain link fence and a house beyond played peekaboo through the trees, and on the right, a trailhead appeared. Just past the tree line, it crossed a babbling brook over a weathered wooden foot bridge. Chandler looked around to make sure he was unobserved, then darted into the forest. He hurried over the bridge, the planks clacking underfoot, and picked up the path on the other side. The terrain sloped away from the trail and thick growth blocked out the light of the sun, casting the valley in shadows. Wasn't there a Bible verse about the valley of the shadow of death? A pleased grin carved across Chandler's lips and a sense of destiny came over him.
For the past week, he had been pumping himself up for this day, and though he was smarter and better than everyone else, including the police, he was wracked with worry. He planned meticulously, following Lola to learn her schedule, but a thousand things could still go wrong. Even a man who was careful, crossed his Ts and dotted his Is, and waited for the perfect moment to spring into action could only control so much. Some things are beyond his dominion and all he can do is be vigilant for unexpected snags.
He doubted he would encounter any today. This stretch of path, beginning in Miller Park six blocks to the east and ending at Ridgedale, was secluded and seldom used, which made it the perfect place to strike.
A quarter mile past the bridge, the trail bent sharply to the left and angled down a steep incline. A large, moss covered boulder shaped roughly like an egg sat on the right, perched on a bed of soft grass. Chandler ducked off the path, slipped behind it, and dropped to his knees. He took up position on the rock's northwest corner, facing the bend. Farther on, the trail curved around a hillside, its course partially veiled behind a latticework of interlaced branches through which he would be able to see anyone approaching and get out of sight before they saw him.
Without taking his eyes off the path, he dug his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. 12:45. Lola would be along in five minutes, give or take.
Chandler had learned a lot about the little girl over the past twelve days. She was involved in cheerleading, gymnastics, and dance. Every Saturday afternoon, she walked the two miles from Franklin Avenue to the Academy of Martial Arts on Main Street for an hour-long karate class. She made the trek alone and didn't dawdle or get sidetracked the way he expected her to. Girls are empty-headed and easily distracted, but whenever Lola Loud walked anywhere - Flip's, the bus stop, the park to practice her ribbon dance or cheer routine - she did so with the unshakable focus of a girl to whom the rest of the world did not exist. She was vapid and vain, but seen from afar, she seemed lost in thought, as though grappling with something big. Probably what color dress she should buy next. Girls like Lola don't have real problems. They float through life on a cloud of pixie dust and unicorn farts, everything handed to them on a silver platter because they just happened to come out pretty.
Well, Chandler was pretty too and he had to work for everything he had. Every day was an epic struggle to keep himself in check and play by the rules. Other people don't have to do that, he decided, because they're completely deluded. They've bought into the game so far that they forgot they were playing it in the first place. Chandler was too intelligent for that. He couldn't switch his brain off like a fucking robot, he knew what he was and what his purpose was every second of every day, and staying himself - like a race car forced to go 50 MPH even though it yearns, needs, to go 200 - was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
Lola Loud didn't have to do that. She filled her dense little head with glitter, stardust, and bullshit, and Chandler hated her for it. Hated that she didn't have to suffer. Hated that she didn't know the burden he faced. Hated that she could escape up her own asshole while he was left to marinate in the cold realization that he would forever have to pretend to be somebody he was not.
His hatred for Lola Loud had grown exponentially over the past two weeks; she had come to symbolize everything wrong with the world and stood head and shoulders above everyone else as an example of what he wished to never be...and what he wished he could be.
A flicker of movement caught his eye and he came out of his respite. A flash of pink moved through the trees, coming toward the bend, and Chandler's frozen heart gave a very muted twitter. Lola appeared moments later, clad in a pink dress, a black gym bag on her back and her thumbs thrust through the straps. Her tiara glinted in the sun like a crown of fire and the wind slipping between the trees stirred her blonde hair. Chandler's stomach twisted and every muscle in his body tensed. His penis perked up like a submarine's periscope spotting an enemy ship and his hands closed into fists.
She emerged from the trees and started up the path, her head slightly down and that familiar preoccupation on her face. All she had to do was look up and she would see him, but she was too lost in thought. Chandler got to his feet, crouching, and steeled himself for what was to come.
Coming around the bend, Lola climbed the hill. For a brief second, they faced each other. If she lifted her head, their eyes would lock and she would freeze like a doe in the presence of wolves. She did not lift her head. She passed within inches of him, so close he could smell her perfume.
Time slowed. Chandler's heart pounded. The edges of his vision dulled, blurring like smoke. All thoughts fled his mind, and with a hissing snear, he sprang out like a frenzied trapdoor spider. Lola started to turn, but before she could register what was happening, he slammed into her, one arm snaking around her waist and his other hand clamping over her mouth. A jolt of fear tore through her body and her muscles went instantly stiff. He yanked her off her feet, spun, and dragged her behind the rock.
Understanding must have hit her, because she started to fight then, thrashing, kicking, and whipping her head from side to side like a panicking mouse in the talons of a hawk. Chandler tightened his grip and clutched her face as hard as he could, her cheeks smooshing and her jawbone squeezing under his fingers. "Stop it," he hissed.
Lola swung her legs frantically back and forth, kicking one shoe off and then the other. Her pink polished toes curled and her arms flailed. Her gloved fingers grazed his cheek and her heel hit him in the shin, sending a bolt of pain into his hip. Flashing, he smashed his fist against the side of her head and flung her to the ground. She landed face first on the carpet of grass and lay there, unmoving. Chandler winced at the aching in his leg. Fucking stupid bitch. Lashing out, he kicked her foot and she jerked limply. He did it again, and a moan burst from her lips. It was small and breathy, but enough to penetrate the fog in his brain and bring him back. Panting, he peeked around the corner of the boulder and scanned the path. Empty.
Good.
Taking off his jacket, he tossed it into the grass next to her and unbuckled his belt. His dick was already hard, throbbing into the inseam of his jeans like an excited dog pulling against its leash. Lola stirred and pushed herself up to her hands and knees. Chandler unzipped his jeans and pulled his erection out, the cool air caressing his fevered skin. He knelt behind her, grabbed her hips, and dragged her to him. She let out a yelp and tried to pull away, and Chandler responded by punching her in the side. A wheeze exploded from her throat and her arms went out from under her, spilling her to the grass. Chandler hiked her dress up over her butt and took a moment to admire her view. As expected, her panties were pink and frilly, and seeing them after dreaming of them for twelve long days sent a quiver through Chandler's stomach.
Letting go and allowing her to rest flat on the ground, he hooked his fingers into her waistband and tugged them down her legs, the fabric brushing down her smooth, creamy flesh. Realizing what was happening, she jerked and started to fight again. "No!" she screamed, but it came out as a broken grunt.
Chandler pulled her panties over her ankles and paused to press them to his nose. Her warm musk filled his nostrils, and he took a deep, hitching breath, savoring her scent. He tossed them away just as she staggered to her feet. He blinked in confusion, and she began to run.
Coming alive, Chandler jumped to his feet and gave chase, catching up to her on the trail. He threw his arms around her from behind. She screamed and tried to drive her elbow into his stomach, but he deflected and yanked her off her feet again. Seething, furious that she would dare defy him, he took her behind the boulder and slammed her to the ground as hard as he could, knocking the wind from her lungs. Standing over her while she wiggled and writhed in the grass, he pulled down his pants and kicked them aside. His dick jutted out before him, trembling with arousal and - perhaps this was his imagination - casting a long, ominous shadow over Lola's back.
He dropped to his knees, forced her legs apart, and wedged himself between them. He pushed her dress up, gripped his dick, and brought it to her silky lips. The scalding heat of her sex broke over his tip and the kiss of her skin, so soft and warm, sent shivers down his spine. Finding her opening, he slid his hips forward just enough to fill it. He took his hand away, splayed his palms on either side of her, and caught his breath. She was too dazed to try and escape, too winded to make more than tiny whimpers in the back of her throat.
"Fucking bitch," Chandler hissed, spittle flying from his lips, "you think you're so high and mighty. You're not shit."
Clutching the grass in his hands, he slammed himself forward. His dick speared her bubbling core and a skull-cracking shriek ripped from her chest, echoing through the woods like a ghostly wail and startling birds into flight. Her wet walls rippled around his dick and her muscles bore down on it in an attempt to expel it. Chandler drew back and surged into her, his dick spreading her body and battering her tender cervix. Her scream tapered off into a breathless rattle and her fingers dug into the soft earth as if holding onto salvation that wasn't there. Chandler pounded her, flesh slapping, and she flopped to the grass, a series of hitching cries escaping her throat. Reaching out, he caught a handful of her hair and pulled back as he slid into her womb. She sucked a great gulp of air and let it out in a sob.
When Chandler started to cum, he pressed his hips flush to hers and bore down on his teeth. His seed flooded the secret chambers of her belly and she jumped at the unexpected feeling of hot liquid. He forced her face to the ground and lay atop her, his cheek touching hers and his ragged breath puffing against her hair. She squeezed her eyes closed and gave into the tears she had been holding back, her little body shaking with the force of her misery and her bottom lip trembling pitifully. For the first time, she looked like the frightened little six year old she was, and Chandler licked his chops.
He was just getting started.
Pulling out, he got to his knees, leaned over, and slipped the switchblade from his jacket. He rolled Lola onto her back; tear streaked dirt smeared her face and twigs and leaves tangled in her messy hair. She opened her eyes, and when she saw the knife, her pupils dilated. Her stark fear intoxicated Chandler, and he held the blade up for her to get a good, long look. "You think you're really pretty, huh?" he asked windedly.
She gulped.
"You get everything handed to you and life is just hunky dory." He pressed the cold steel to the side of her face, and she started to shake like a leaf. "Everything's easy for you. You don't have one single little worry."
He brushed the blade along her cheek bone and over the bridge of her nose. Terror pooled in her moist eyes and her chest rose and fell with her labored breath. Chandler trailed the point down her nose and lips. She swallowed. "Please don't -"
Chandler brought his open palm down in a wide arc. It struck her face with a meaty thwack and her head whipped to one side. "Shut up, bitch," he commanded.
Lola wept.
A wicked smile crossed Chandler's face and he flicked his wrist. The blade left a red streak along her cheek and she wailed. His dick throbbed, hard once more, and his breathing came in short, rasping pants. Lola writhed beneath him in a futile effort to work herself free, and Chandler slapped her again. "Stop fucking moving or I'll cut your throat."
She screwed her eyes closed and bit down on her lower lip to stifle her cries. Chandler pushed her dress up her stomach and then her chest. Her tiny breasts jiggled with the furious drumming of her heart and Chandler stopped to graze the flat end of the knife over her little rose bud nipple. "Girls like you need to learn your fucking place," he said huskily. He pressed the blade to her stomach and jerked his hand. Red oozed and a blood curdling screech dislodged from Lola's chest. She tossed her head from side to side, her hair rustling the grass, and Chandler's dick ached for release. He reached down to pull her legs apart, but she snapped them shut.
"No, please!" she begged, her voice hitching and breaking. "Please not again! Don't hurt me again!"
Ignoring her, he pried her thighs open and forced himself between them. A thick mixture of blood and cum dribbled from her pussy and her lips were a raw and scoured shade of red. She tried to squirm away, and Chandler slashed the knife across her stomach, the feeling of her flesh tearing beneath the razor's edge making him even harder than he already was. He scooted closer until his dick touched her middle, then guided it to her entrance. "If you try anything, I'll kill you," he said. "Do you understand me?"
When she didn't reply, he jabbed the knife into her left breast, right above the heart. "Okay! Okay! Okay!" she screamed. "Okay!" She turned her head to the side and broke down crying again. Her fisted hands came to rest on either side of her head in a V and her heels dug into the soil, her knees falling limp against his sides. He held the knife to her throat and sank himself roughly into her. She lay there and took it, her face twisting and contorting in beautiful agony. She sucked her lips into her mouth and drew air through flaring nostrils in a brave attempt to keep from crying, and the urge to hurt her seized Chandler.
Pulling back, he rammed forward with all his might, and smiled in satisfaction at the kneading, hurt-child quality of her scream. "Do you like it, princess?" he asked. "Do you like being fucked?"
She didn't reply.
Dropping the knife onto the ground so that he had use of both hands, Chandler clamped his hands over hers and bore down. Bones cracked and popped. Lola winced but didn't scream. Leaning over, he molded his lips to hers and jammed his tongue into her mouth. She tasted like cookies...then copper when he bit down on her lower lip. She let out a muffled cry and hit his shoulders to get him off.
Bad move.
He snatched her around the throat and pressed his thumbs into her windpipe just as he had in so many daydreams. Horror filled her eyes, and when he squeezed, they bulged from their sockets. Her walls tightened almost painfully around his shaft and her hands flew to his. He redoubled his grip and rutted her hard and fast, his tip knocking into her cervix and bringing him closer to cumming. Deep crimson color spread across her face and her little heart pounded against her breast. Her eyes misted and she started to convulse like a dying epilieptic.
That sent him over the edge, and he came with a primal cry of dominance. Lola's eyes rolled into the back of her head and she went completely limp.
Letting go, he pulled out in a gush of sperm and rolled onto his back next to her, his hand coming to rest on his chest. Overhead, crows ducked and wheeled above the treetops and the sun was higher than before. How long had they been here?
He grabbed his phone from his jacket and checked the time. Less than an hour.
By now, Lola was beginning to come awake. Her dress was still pulled to her chin and her pale body caked in dirt; blood trickled from her bottom lip and a dark bruise had begun to take shape on the side of her face.
In other words, she was beautiful.
Getting back to his knees, Chandler admired her a moment, then rolled her onto her stomach. "You're gonna like this, you little bitch," he said. "You're gonna really like it." He spread her butt cheeks apart. Her puckered butthole stared up at him, ripe for the picking. He pressed his index finger to it, and she jumped. He uttered a sadistic laugh and jammed his finger in. She hissed through her teeth and started to thrash, but he stilled her with a quick jab to the back of the skull. He felt along the ground, found the knife, and slashed the blade across her naked back. Blood bubbled out but she made no sign that she felt it.
He curled his finger in her and scraped her walls. "Oink like a pig," he said suddenly.
Lola didn't respond.
"Oink like a fucking pig," he ordered.
For a moment she was silent, then she took a deep, shivery breath. "Oink," she said. Her voice was hollow...empty...dead.
"Snort."
She snorted.
Chandler laughed. "You know what piggies like?" he asked.
Without giving her a chance to reply, he grabbed a handful of dirt and smashed it into the back of her head. "Oink for me."
"Oink, oink."
He pulled his finger out of her butt, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her head back. He ran his finger under her nose, then touched it to her lips. "Suck it."
She dutifully opened her mouth, and he stuck it in. "Lick."
She lapped it like a hungry kitten suckling its mother's breast.
Next, he got to his feet and yanked her to her knees. She swayed drunkenly back and forth and kept her eyes on the ground. "I have something else for you to suck."
When she didn't look up, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. The vacant expression in her eyes enraged him, and he smacked her. Pushing her against the boulder, he slipped his fingers through her hair, tugged, and slid his dick past her lips. He hit the back of her throat and she gagged. "Don't fucking puke on me, cunt," he said. He pulled her hair and fucked her mouth hard. She didn't resist.
His end came quickly and he pulled out at the last second. Cum splattered her already dirty face and dripped down her chin, mingling with drool and blood.
Pulling his pants up, he knelt in front of the little girl, who slumped back against the rock and stared numbly into space. He cupped her cheek in his hand, made her look at him, and fixed her with a stern gaze. "If you tell anyone about this," he said, "I'll do it to Lana and make you watch."
He expected fear, panic, dread, but he got nothing.
She was broken.
And that made him smile.
"Don't say a fucking word." He poked her forehead.
"I won't," she whispered.
Standing, Chandler grabbed his jacket and threw it on. "You're a piece of shit, Lola. An ugly, stupid piece of shit. Never forget that."
He turned around, scratched his nuts, and walked away.
Before he was even home, he decided that he wanted to do it again. And he knew just the stuck up little bitch to do it to.
Lindsey Sweetwater.
He smiled.
Everyone has a purpose in life…
...and Chandler McCann had found his.