Here is a sneak peak into the first chapter of a new novel idea I am working on. Comments and critique are welcome!
Prologue – The Collector
Four portraits of my prized conquests were neatly hung up on the wall of my study. I sat back smugly in my leather recliner and reflected upon each of them and why is it that I had been so drawn to them. They looked lovely in these pictures, each of them were different but pretty much the same if you were to look deeper. Each one looked as if they could be a model – but that was nothing, modern technology and magical Instagram filters could make any naked mole rat looking girl look like a supermodel on the internet. Add a pout or a flirty wink, maybe a bit of cleavage and you had a goddess on your hands, complete with over a thousand Instagram and Facebook likes. These girls were it, and if you were lucky enough to be a follower, as I am, you could salivate over these faux beauties as they upload multitudes of photos to the masses in order to serve their need for attention and fuel their ego.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not some scraggly, acne-covered, lonely virgin hiding behind my computer in my mothers basement committed to whining over people more beautiful, popular and glamorous than I. I consider myself a mastermind, situated in a penthouse apartment overlooking the upper east side of New York City. I am every bit the suave, handsome, rich, cunning charmer that you read about in those sub-par erotic novels. Not to imply that I am by any means sub-par, I am above average in everything I do, and that includes my conquests. I am a fantasy with a twisted edge.
I rose slowly from my chair, smirked at the portraits, “Time for a new conquest, lets not keep her waiting.”
I was careful to lock the door of my study, it was my sanctuary, where I did my research and tokens from my prizes.
I strolled into my bedroom and gave the overly made-up dark-haired girl in my bed a wry smile, while undoing the belt on my luxurious velvet robe. I evaluated her as I strode over to the king-size bed – she was a ten in the Facebook picture I liked, about a seven right now and definitely a three without the make-up which I had seen when doing some following of the real-life variety. I shook that mental image out of my head as I proceeded to pound her with the force of a hundred stampeding buffalo fleeing the impending doom of a lion attack. Once she was blissfully sedated from the multiple orgasms I had given her, I pulled out a long rod with something attached to the end.
“Feast your eyes on this!”
No, it was not my penis.
“OMG, a selfie-stick!” she exclaimed, stroking it with her slender fingers, “Are you going to video us doing it?”
Her blue, slightly panda-rimmed eyes a la the tears from the orgasms, sparkled with delight.
“Yes,” I lied effortlessly.
“Are you going to upload it? That would so get me Paris or Kim famous,” she said stupidly.
Seriously. Sometimes I actually meet girls like this to find out if they are as air-headed and vapid as they are in their online profiles, only to find out that I am right. It often displeases me to do what I so often have to do, but someone has to get the job done. I climbed off the bed and then noticed the smear of blush, foundation and mascara on my thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. It was then that I snapped and began to mercilessly bludgeon her with the selfie stick. She tried to fight back, screaming and kicking out, but I just held her down and stabbed at her bony body with the stick. The thick sprays of blood oozed out of her body, as did her useless,vacant existence. When she was finally motionless, I threw the now bent-up, human-waste coated selfie stick to the ground and walked back to my study, still naked and covered with the crimson waste. There would be time for clean-up and a long shower later. For now, there was important work to be done. I turned my television on for background noise while I booted up my computer and went to Ashleigh Wentworth – now dead girl’s – Facebook profile page. I enlarged her profile picture and clicked ‘print’. I put on some latex gloves and held up the latest portrait to the light.
“Perfect,” I muttered, and slipped it into a gold embossed frame. I hung it up next to the other four.
Five.
“…And in your latest entertainment news, lovely heiress Charlotte Hale dumped Italian movie star, Joey Mascapone. It was rumoured that they’d just gotten engaged but insiders informed our reporters that it was only a matter of time before the romance ended because of Joey’s gambling and drug addiction.”
I turned around and saw a picture of a gorgeous blonde arm in arm with an oily-haired, olive-skinned, slightly ratty-looking man. He was probably rather handsome once, but like the memes say, ‘meth: not even once’.
“Our reporters have also spotted Charlotte with who appears to be her new beau, Jacques Pierre Antoinne – notable French photographer. Could she have already moved on so soon?”
“And she’s about to move on yet again,” I whispered, urgently opening up Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. In each of the search bars, I typed in Charlotte Hale. I got many hits, but she was obviously the one with the most friends and followers. I added myself to her list of followers. It always amuses me how excited these girls get when they get a new follower, never anticipating that I am about to follow them in reality. I clicked the like button on her Facebook and Instagram profile pictures, and on a couple more that I found arousing, my face lit up by the glare of my laptop screen, I smiled widely. I already found a new conquest.
