Potential

Dumb bitches, D thought, as he took the offering cup from the woman's manicured hands.

How many times did he cum down to this little place, with a different name, a different suit, and the dumb bitches never recognized him?

He knew the way into the back rooms, but let the dumb bitch think she was doing her job. What kind of woman worked at a place like this? He shuddered to think, and not very much made him shudder.

No, not very much at all.

She opened the door for him, looked up and down the Armani and practically purred with interest. "Here you are Mr. Halden."

D stepped into the dimly lit room, careful not to brush against the dumb bitch. Bitches in general were useless, only the ones who believed fucking was optional when pro creating held a special place in his world.

He shut the door in the dumb bitch's face.

This room was the same as all the others, dirty white linoleum floors trying to hide in the low lighting.

It once housed an abortion clinic. That small fact was the only reason he drove to this part of the city, after sunset, when dirty pathetic victims came into the trash covered streets.

D loved irony, but keeping the rhythm in life was top shelf. And if he was anything, he was top shelf.

A small stainless steel sink perched on one wall and an over stuffed, over used chair sat in the corner, its color long faded to dingy gray. Darks stains in the seat testified to the functionality of the piece. A few of those stains carried his DNA, as did every other over stuffed ridiculously filthy chair in the building. The chair faced a floor model television set, several well worn magazines littered the cracked vinyl top and floor beside it.

He removed Grant's jacket, careful not to let it rub against anything in the room, and hung it on a tarnished brass hook beside the door.

He set the small specimen container on the sink and looked into the poorly silvered mirror. Huge black pupils in shit brown eyes should be looking back at him, but he was wearing green contact lenses. His brown hair was brushed back and jelled just the way Grant wore it on the driver's license.

D slowly unbuttoned the white silk shirt, watching his fingers loose the buttons in the mirror. He removed the shirt slow, looking at the top of his chest as if it belonged to another man. He turned his back on the reflection and hung the shirt over the jacket on the hook. Since the mirror didn't extend to the floor there was no way to witness himself removing trousers and underwear. The pants were too large, easily sliding over his loafers which were the only things between his bare feet and the sticky, begrimed floor.

Standing naked in the loafers, he reached for the inside pocket of the jacket. His hand trembled when it contacted the prize. The familiar worn corners rubbed his fingers like old lovers and the prickly new edge caused his cock to stir. He breathed deep, slow, slow, slow, he reminded himself. There was a ritual to be observed, to prolong the pleasure, to ensure success.

An honored rhythm.

Without looking at the precious acquisitions, he picked up the plastic specimen cup and headed toward the chair. He placed the cup on the arm, looked at the sagging cushion with the dark stains and smiled. Perfect, this was shaping up to be his best visit yet. He reached out and ran an index finger through the newest,wettest stain. He closed his eyes, brought the finger to his lips, and greedily sucked the salty secretion.

Perfect.

His hands were shaking when he shuffled then spread each of the six rectangles face down on the cushion, placing the newest one last.

Each visit was a challenge, a macabre card game of photographs, of trophies. A game introduced by fate, by genetics, by an inescapable rhythm in life.

A rhythm he perpetuated, played, mastered.

D closed his right fist around his erect penis, settling it low against heavy sacks. The head was already wet in anticipation of what was to cum.

With his left hand he turned over the first rectangle.

He sucked in a deep breath. This picture was a favorite, sure to push him over the edge if uncovered toward the end of the game.

Steve Harman's dead eyes and naked body glowed from the photo in the dim light of the room. D's contact lenses were drawn to the long strips of skin nailed to the wall beside the body with hunks of clinging bloody meat. The memory of each delicious scream, the cries of utter despair, compelled him to stroke once, twice on his vein engorged shaft.

He stopped, grasping his erection at the base with index finger and thumb until it was almost too painful.

He flipped the second photo and moaned aloud.

The cards were not being good to him, determined to draw his essence before the final one was played. If that occurred, he would be forced to replay this game again tomorrow night, and every night after until he was able to reach the end of the deck without emptying. As much as he enjoyed the clinic, he much preferred building the collection. The planning, the seduction, the blood, the semen.

But the rhythm of life could not be denied. After each photo, that rhythm brought him to donate, to give back an abundance of life as the cost for snuffing just one.

Each deck contained ten wondrous photos before he retired it. This was the fifth and best deck so far.

In the second photo, Rodney Washington's mahogany skin showed like a black ink smudge. He was D's first ethnic kill. It was everything he fantasized. Rodney's testicles lay dissected on the night stand beside the bed, his full lips still glistening with D's sperm, dead hands tied behind his back.

Three strokes, hard and fast at the memory. D's heavy breathing hardened to panting.

He flipped the third photo.

Max. Oh god, he thought and stroked furiously. Max was a teenage prostitute from this part of the city, and so willing, so willing to do anything, anything, to prolong his pathetic existence. Max was the theme for the next deck. D stroked harder, moaning and panting with the friction.

He flipped the fourth card with flourish and his balls tightened up ready to burst forth.

The fifth brought a gleaming pearl of semen to the end of his erection.

He quickly flipped the sixth, final, and newest addition to the collection.

Grant Halden lay on his belly, legs spread, beautiful green eyes sitting on the bedside table watching. D thought about how it felt to drive deep into him from behind while his glistening eyeballs watched from beside the bed. How warm and sticky Grant's blood felt on his hand as he climaxed and ran the razor across Grant's neck....

D grabbed the plastic cup, over shooting and wetting the chair, before capturing his essence and dancing the rules of rhythm. His shout of release echoed off the room's tiny walls.

He reverently collected the photos, and slipped them back into Grant's jacket.

He dressed quickly without washing his hands, let himself out.

The dumb bitch was waiting, a knowing smile on her face.

"We appreciate the donation."

D placed the cup on the counter and considered the dumb bitch.

The silent part of him, the part which coiled and waited to strike, wanted her to recognize him.

She failed him.

Typical.

He stuck out his right hand. She shook it.

He whistled as he stepped out of the one time abortion clinic, now so full of potential life.

Potential life.

Potential victims.

Potential game players.