Let me out. Let me out. Eating dinner with my parents, andthey ask, how have you been? Let me out. Brewing a pot of coffee in themorning before work, Let me out. It's still there, that unending refrain.Sometimes it's louder. Sometimes it's barely audible unless I listen veryhard, in a quiet room, but it never stops. Let me out, let me out, let meout.I finger the handle of my knife as I slice the crusts off her littlesandwich (PB&J, her favorite!) before I bring it down. She hates crusts. Ithink about just getting it over with and slitting my jugular, right now.I could do it. She would die, of course, without me to feed her - thenourishment of food, yes, but also hope. Every time I descend the steps,she thinks, maybe I will let her go now. Maybe this is the time I fumblemy key, or she can pickpocket my phone. It's not, though. I'm too carefulfor that. I will put the plate inside the arc of her chain where she canreach it, and leave, the light from the top of the stairs narrowing. She said the next girl I could, and that young waitress was the next girl. Throughout our dinner, I had flirted expertly with her and got unmistakably slutty signals back in return, so when it came time for dessert, I got up and pulled her out the back door into the alley. In moments, I had her bent over a trash can while I pumped her from behind. And, when I was about to cum, I pushed her down onto the filthy pavement and unloaded all over her pretty face so she'd be all dirty and covered in cum for the rest of her shift. I knew Madison didn't want me making love to these girls. I was just supposed to use them to get my rocks off. That's why I had treated the slutty waitress like a cheap, nasty whore. It worked perfectly. When I came back to the table and told Madison every dirty detail, she smiled viciously at my raunchiness and even laughed out loud when she saw the waitress come back in with messy, cum glued hair and a greasy, smudged uniform. After she'd stopped laughing, she'd.
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