Chapter Thirteen
Contemplation

In his study, Stephen removed the manila envelope from his briefcase and opened it, removing the pictures. He sorted out the ones of his candidates and started to run the rest through the shredder, but he paused. There might come a time when someone asked about the 'magazine'. It wasn't impossible that, after his chosen one disappeared, someone would question why there had been a photographer around. He set the extra photos aside, reflecting that he really might set up a company publication. It would be another way of keeping the workers preoccupied.

Stephen carried the photos up to his room, placing them on the bedside table, then took a leisurely shower. Usually he showered in the morning, but tonight would be his first time to 'be with' his prospects, and he wanted to feel fresh.

His flesh glowing and still slightly damp from the steamy water, Stephen padded into his bedroom. He'd considered wrapping a towel around his waste, but there really wasn't any reason, since he was alone. Instead he hung one around his neck, since he'd need it in a little while. He turned off the overhead light, leaving his bedside lamp on. It cast a small pool of warm, golden light on his bed as he folded back the covers Miss Fulham had turned down earlier.

Stephen sat comfortably on the edge of the bed and spread the photos out on the smooth white sheets. There were three photos of each of his subjects, and he grouped each trio of photos together. Stephen arranged them neatly, being careful to have each in a symmetric, pleasing formation. Then he opened the drawer of his night stand and removed a small bottle of very expensive lotion. He uncapped it and sat it on the table top in readiness.

Then Stephen looked at the photos, and began to caress himself. His cock hung between his thighs, already thickening a little with the anticipation that had accompanied the preparation. He skimmed his fingers along the still soft length as his eyes moved from one photograph to another, and he thought about each of the women.

Su-Lin Liang. In the first she was standing at a table, sorting a mound of envelopes into piles, intent on her work. The second showed her loading neat bundles of correspondence onto the cart that would be used to carry them throughout the building, and again she concentrated on her work. The third had been taken in the company cafeteria. She was sipping a soda through a straw, her lips pursed, eyes downcast. Stephen gave his shaft a squeeze, and felt it beginning to firm. That was a good picture. If she was the one, it would go in the Meditation Room.

Leeann Potter. He frowned when he saw her photos. She was smiling cheerfully at the camera in each one, eyes bright and lively. She's displaying herself, Stephen thought with disapproval. Not like a hider at all. I'm afraid I misjudged her. Without hesitation he swept her photos together and deposited them face down on the night stand, then turned his attention to the next subject.

Mina O' Connel. The first was obviously candid. She was at her station, face turned toward the camera with a startled, wide-eyed expression. Stephen looked at the photo for a moment, then poured some of the lotion into his palm, worked it evenly over his hands, and began to stroke himself more firmly. He was fully erect now, and the pleasure was beginning to spread through his body in a long, slow wash. The second picture was much the same pose as the first: she had only turned slightly more toward the photographer. Now the surprised look had been replaced by one of clear annoyance. Dark brows were drawn slightly together, and the full mouth looked sulky. His hand speeded up. In the last photo, also taken in the cafeteria, she was most at ease. Her elbow was propped on the table, and her chin rested in her hand. Her eyes were half closed, and her expression was almost dreamy. What had she been thinking of?

Stephen moved on to Adrianne Baranski. She looked stiff and uncomfortable in her pictures. She smiled, but it was wooden, and she couldn't seem to look directly at the photographer. Good, good. A point in her favor. The photographer had gotten a shot of her leaning down to get something from a bottom drawer, and the photograph showed an almost indiscreet amount of cleavage. Stephen frowned even as he used his thumb to spread the drizzle of pre-ejaculate that had drizzled from his slit over his glans. Well, he supposed he couldn't count that as actually displaying herself. She had almost certainly not been aware that she was displaying that much skin. But still, was it a subconscious wish for attention?

Torrie Schulburg was captured just rising from her office chair, and Stephen frowned at the amount of leg she showed even as he reached down to fondle his testicles. And she was peeking over her shoulder in a distinctly provocative way in the second photo, her smile sly. He didn't even bother to look at the third picture, but scooped them up and piled them on top of Leeann's.

"Quite a productive night," he murmured. "Two more eliminated already. So, my lovelies, that leaves you. Li-ang, O'Connel, and Baranski." Stephen took the towel from around his neck and spread it carefully cross his thighs, so that it hung beneath his hard-on. He knew from experience that once he ejaculated he wouldn't feel like getting out of bed to clean himself, and he certainly didn't want to leave sperm on the bedroom rug.

He touched each face gently with his fingertips while he masturbated with the other hand. He picked his favorite photos of each woman, putting the others with the already rejected pictures, and fixed his gaze on his choices.

Which one? His breathing became deeper, more rapid. Oh, God, this was so good. Each one was at home, thinking herself safe and unnoticed in her little nest, with no idea that the hunter had turned his attention to her. Stephen squeezed himself firmly. It might have been better if he'd used both hands, but he needed one hand free. Again he touched the photos, tracing the lines of cheeks and lips. His voice was a ragged whisper as he spoke to each one. "You can be mine. You can be mine. You can be mine."

He climaxed with a gasp, shoving up into his own hand. His seed spurted strongly. He was surprised to see that he almost overshot the towel. He hadn't come that hard for a long time, not even the other night when he'd been buried in the whore's ass. He'd apparently been missing having a pet more than he had realized.

Stephen wiped himself clean with the unstained portion of the towel, then put the wadded up cloth on the night stand. He'd drop it in the clothes hamper tomorrow when he went into the bathroom. Baxter gathered the three photos and sorted through them one more time, murmuring, "Thank you, ladies." Then he slipped them under his pillow, turned out the lamp, and slipped under the covers. He wasn't worried about damaging the pictures during the night: He was a very peaceful sleeper. At least physically.

He was thirteen again. Thirteen: that summer that he found his obsession. Or should that be 'obsessions', plural?

He had come back from one of his expeditions into the surrounding woods. It hadn't been one of his more successful forays: he'd only managed to capture two of his hiders, but one of them was really special. It had a jar all to itself for feat that another insect would injure it in panic.

He'd almost passed this one by. In fact, he had missed it at first. He'd walked right by the old fallen log. It had been down for some years, apparently. It was already beginning to merge into the detritus that lay scattered over the forest floor. The wood at the ends was crumbling, with no more texture or solidity than dry cork. The bark was visible only dimly, almost covered by various types of moss, molds, and fungi. He was walking, and it was beginning to fall behind his field of vision when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement.

Stephen froze. He did not turn his head, but strained his eyes sideways, searching for another hint of movement. There was nothing for a long moment. It was almost suffocating ly quiet there: cool, with the sunlight reaching the ground only in fitful patches that shifted. Perhaps that was what he had seen? But no, there it was again: a flicker. Now he did turn his head, slowly and carefully, for a better look.

Near him, at the end of the log, there was a cluster of some strange type of mushroom. They stuck out from the log like jagged scallop shaped steps without braces, ranking up the side, mottled brown. That one at the top was shaped a little differently from the others.

As he watched it slowly opened and spread, closed back to the blade shape, then repeated the movement. With the wings open he could see the lozenge shaped body between them. Moving with infinity slowness and patience, Stephen turned toward the log and took one step, then another, arm lifting.

Just as the butterfly lifted off the log he brought the net down in a great, swooping arc. For a moment he thought he was going to lose it. It fluttered frantically, scant inches ahead of the following net. The Stephen jerked his wrist, twisting it, and snared the little creature. He quickly gathered the net into his fist near the hoop, leaving the butterfly in a small pouch at the bottom, then shrugged out of his pack and opened it.

Unwilling to lay the net down, he somehow managed to extract a specimen jar and unscrew the lid one handed. The butterfly was carefully transferred, and the perforated lid quickly screwed into place. Once that was done Stephen held the jar up to his face, the better to examine his prize. It was the biggest one he'd caught so far. The wingspan must be almost six inches.

He went home. There was no point in staying out any longer that day, he wouldn't find anything else to match this, and he felt like celebrating. It was late afternoon when he got back to the house. Instead of going directly to the Hobby House he went past it, through the garden, and to the kitchen entrance.

The kitchen was empty. He dropped his backpack near the door, propping the net in a corner, and took off his tennis shoes. They were smeared with mud and perhaps other earth substances, and his mother would not appreciate him tracking them through the house. Stephen carefully placed his jar on the table, then got himself a soda out of the refrigerator and sat at the table to contemplate his prize.

He opened the can with a pop and hiss of carbonation, took a sip, and regarded his new pet with satisfaction. It crouched on the floor of the jar, wings together over its back, like a sail. Now and then it would slowly lower them, then raise them again. If Stephen listened carefully, he almost thought he could hear the whispery tick as they touched the glass.

"Got you," he whispered. "Thought you could hide from me, didn't you? You're good at hiding, but I'm better at finding. Now you're mine. But don't worry, I'm going to take care of you."

Stephen heard something. It wasn't much, but it didn't belong there. It was a small, stealthy scraping sound. He became very still, listening intently. Finally he held his own breath and listened again. Was that someone else, breathing?

The table was placed in a corner so that only two sides were free, the other two running along walls. Stephen bend down and peered under the table. Even with the bright lights of the kitchen, it was dark under there, almost like a cave. In the dim recess, a small figure was crouching. The sound of the breathing speeded up.

Stephen squinted, and slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom. It was a little girl, probably no more than four or five. She was squatting back in the far corner, almost blending into the shadows. Stephen frowned at her. "Come out of there." There was a flash of dark, liquid eyes, and the girl ducked her head. Stephen made his voice very firm and grown up. "Come out from under there at once, young lady."

Reluctantly the little girl crawled out from under the table and stood beside it. Stephen sat up and took another look at her in the bright light. No wonder he hadn't seen her when he came in. It was hard to determine what color her dress had once been, as it had faded through many washings to a generic dust color. It was a little too tight, and too short, showing a surprising amount of skinny legs for such a small child. Her skin even more brown than Stephen's after all the time he'd spent in the sun, and her brown hair was in a long, messy braid that was beginning to unravel.

He stared at her. "Who are you?"

The child blushed, looking down to where slightly grubby toes peeked out of sandals. Her voice was a whisper so low that he couldn't make it out. It didn't really matter, he supposed. He'd realized by now that she wasn't anyone important, no threat of any kind. He remembered that the housekeeper was supposed to have a child. But if this was hers, what was she doing here?

"Are you Maria's girl?" Another blush, the dark eyes turned down to the floor. The girl looked as if she desperately wanted to crawl back into her sanctuary. "You know, the housekeeper?"

The girl whispered, "Mamcita dijo permanecer apartada."

"What? Can't you speak English? Why were you hiding?"

The girl seemed to think hard, then whispered, "I sorry. No trouble."

"No, you're not any trouble. But what are you doing here?"

Maria came in then, and her round face paled a little when she saw her daughter standing before the son of the household. "Senor Stephen, she didn't do anything wrong, did she?"

Stephen looked back at the woman. "No. But she was hiding under the table. What's going on? She's yours, isn't she?"

"My daughter, yes. I had to bring her with me today. Her abuela... her grandmother, she is sick. She could not watch her. Your mama said it was all right, as long as she stayed out of the way. She didn't bother you?"

"No, not at all." Stephen reached out and tugged gently on the braid that hung over the girl's shoulder, feeling the silky length slip through his fingers. The little girl smiled at him shyly now that it seemed she was not in trouble. "You're quite a good little hider, aren't you?" His voice was thoughtful.

Stephen awoke in the grey light of dawn and lay staring up at the ceiling. He hadn't had that dream for a long time now. That had been such a special summer, such a special time. There in the kitchen, holding the pigtail of the shy little girl who had concealed herself so well a few moments before, he had realized that hiders were not limited to butterflies.

The thought had fascinated, and excited him, instantly. It wasn't the girl herself. After all, she was just a little kid, even if she was kind of pretty. No, it was what she represented: a whole new species.

Stephen got up and went through his morning ritual, depositing the now stiff towel in the dirty clothes bin, and showering. Since he didn’t' have to go to the office he dressed in neat khakis, a polo shirt, and loafers.

He went down and went directly to the kitchen instead of stopping in the dining room. Miss Fulham was chopping potatoes as he came in. "Good morning, sir. I thought you might like Potatoes O'Brien this morning."

"That would be splendid." He went to the counter and felt the sides of a plastic screw-top pitcher. "Excellent. The sugar water is quite cool."

"I fixed it last night, and took it out of the refrigerator a couple of hour ago in order for it to warm up. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Just remember that we can't save any of it over for the next feeding. It might spoil." He got several shallow saucers out of the cabinet and carried them and the jug down into the basement.

Dominic was on the computer, chin propped in his hand as he watched a small video display that showed a woman, tied over a stair railing, being simultaneously molested by two men. As Stephen came down the stairs he looked up, then closed the program. "There's no need to stop that, Dominic."

"It's okay, I have unlimited access to that site. I can see it whenever. Time to feed the babies?"

"Every third day." Stephen walked to the door on the right side of the room, and Dominic jumped up to open it for him. Stephen thanked him as he entered, and Dominic came in behind him. "There's no need to interrupt your viewing, Dominic."

"Like I said, no big deal. I'll help you. I know it can be kinda awkward, trying to do it alone without letting any of your hiders escape." He shut the door. "There. Now if they DO get loose, you can catch 'em without worrying about them getting out of the room."

"Thank you." He set his burdens down on a table. "I think the most efficient method will be if you lift the lids a little so that I can slip out the old dish, then lift them again for me to put in the fresh."

"Can do."

There were a half dozen glass aquariums of various sizes on tables around the room. For each one Dominic carefully lifted the net lid a few inches, just enough for Stephen to slip his hand in and retrieve the sticky saucers that sat in the dead leaves and grass that littered each one. "Gonna be time for you to change their bedding pretty soon, huh?"

"Yes, I think it's getting a bit stale." Stephen carefully poured a couple of tablespoons worth of slightly thick sugar water into the fresh dishes, then reversed the process he had just completed, putting a saucer in each aquarium. As he was inserting the last dish, a grey butterfly not much bigger than a bumblebee lunged up from the litter and slipped through the gap, beginning to flutter frantically around the room.

"Ah, crap!" Dominic exclaimed.

"It's all right. Go ahead and latch down the lid."

"But dontcha want to get it back inside?"

"Not this time. Now, please stand still so that you don't alarm it any more." Stephen stayed still also, and the two men watched the butterfly fluttering around the room, high and low. Finally it seemed to exhaust itself, and lighted on a table edge. It was facing away from Stephen. He reached out cautiously, and managed to cup his hand over it before it took flight again.

Dominic shook his head. "You're good at that, boss."

"I have a lot of practice." He spread his fingers a little and peeked through the gap, smiling. "They tickle when they struggle to escape."

Dominic watched with interest as Stephen used his free hand to unzip his fly, then work his penis into the open. It was half hard. He always had a little bit of a boner when he was working with his butterflies. Dominic had never yet been able to understand it, but hey. He was the man who paid the bills.

Stephen held his loosely clenched fist close to his face and whispered. "Now, now. You can't escape me, don't you know that?" There was an almost inaudible whirring sound, the sound of the insect frantically beating its wings against its fleshy prison. "No, pretty thing. I can't let you go. Once you're mine, you're always mine."

He was getting harder as he spoke. Dominic leaned back against the door to watch. He'd seen this a couple of times before. Sometimes Stephen lost contact with the rest of the world when he was dealing with his pets.

He touched himself as he spoke to the butterfly struggling in his grip. In a few moments he had a straining hard-on, shiny fluid slicking the deep rose head. He was hung pretty good for an old guy, Dominic thought

Then Stephen brought his hand down and joined it with his other, cupping them both around his hardened organ. The butterfly, trapped in the cage of his fingers, lighted on the velvety skin of his shaft. Stephen began to slowly move his hands back and forth, never allowing a gap that would have let the butterfly escape. It was forced to walk the length of his organ, and back, and Stephen's hands moved. Dominic knew it was weird, but he got a little bit of a hard-on himself, imagining what that must feel like: the minute scratchiness of the insect feet, the feather soft brush of wings.

Stephen's face flushed. His hands moved more rapidly, and Dominic knew that the little insect was being pushed back and forth, no longer able to walk quickly enough. He knew it was coming, but it was still a little shocking when it happened.

Stephen moaned, and suddenly his grip tightened. His hands closed the gap, wrapping firmly around his arousal, flattening the butterfly. Dominic could see the tip of one wing peeking through his fingers, vibrating. Then Stephen started to stroke with fast, savage movements. Dominic shivered a little as the tip of the grey wing tore loose and drifted to the floor, landing on Stephen's polished loafer like a dirty snowflake.

Stephen massaged the remains of the butterfly all over his straining dick, hips jerking. He was always so calm and put together. Seeing him with his cock out, jerking himself almost brutally, making little grunts of pleasure was almost surreal.

He came quickly, sighing his pleasure as he shot his load into the wastebasket Dominic had thoughtfully placed right in front of him. When he was done, Dominic wetted some paper towels at the sink in the corner and handed them over. Stephen cleaned himself thoroughly, tossing the paper into the wastebasket, and again tucked himself away, zipping up. He ran a hand over his still smooth hair, and once again he was the bland, well-bred man known by most of the world.

"Thank you, Dominic. Would you be so kind as to bring the jug and dishes up to the kitchen for cleaning? I'd rather not get my hands sticky again."

"Sure, boss."

"And you can call Mr. Lamont and tell him that he can now concentrate on only three candidates."

Dominic grinned. "Which ones?"

"Guess. I'd like to hear your opinion."

Dominic considered as he gathered up the dirty dishes. "W-ell... I'm thinking not Schulburg. I mean, someone named Torrie just don't strike me as the really retiring type. Baranski I'm pretty sure of. Um... Potter?"

"No. You can look at the photos later and you'll see why. The little slut looks almost vivacious."

"Okay, then I'd say Li-ang, because she's got that oriental reserve going on, and O'Connel. Definitely O'Connel."

Stephen smiled as they started up the stairs. "You sound pretty sure of that."

"Hey, she has to be in the finals with THAT attitude."

"Indeed. I can tell that she's a bit abrasive naturally, but she's doing such an excellent job of concealing it. Nothing to draw attention, either favourably, or negatively."

"Just your meat. Li-ang's pretty hot, but I think I throw my vote behind Irish."

"You like her, do you?" Dominic had not influence on his decision, but he did listen to the boy. Since the younger man was sometimes instrumental in disciplining his pets, it was preferable that he find them desirable also. Of course, this wasn't difficult with Dominic. He found most of the females of the species attractive, one way or the other.

Dominic grinned rubbing the front of his trousers. "I wouldn't exactly call it like."