The Delilah Complex

Twenty-Four

The coffee was extremely hot, but Paul Lessor wasn’t paying attention and burned his tongue so badly he slammed the cup down. The liquid flew up in an arc and splashed down on the front page of the New York Times, just missing the article he was reading. The coffee seeped into the paper and spread. Was it an omen that the stain stopped just at the edge of the story about Timothy Wheaton?

The pain inside his mouth was intense, but Paul couldn’t be bothered with that now. He read every word and thought about all the men from the Scarlet Society who were also reading this at their desks, at their breakfast tables, on the subway, in their chauffeur-driven cars, in their taxis. They were probably shitting in their pants.

Two men. First missing. Now lifeless bodies with pathetic numbers on the soles of their feet. Number 1. And now number 2.

For the first time in his life, Paul Lessor understood the expression “rubbing your hands together with glee.” This was the best feeling he’d had in a long time. This was revenge. This was comeuppance. Ha. If he couldn’t come anymore, at least he could get gratification thinking about how this was screwing with the head of every man who ever visited the society and every man who had ever looked at him with pity.

So what if he couldn’t get it up? They wouldn’t be able to get it up anymore, either. Thorazine wasn’t the only thing that made you impotent. Fear did it, too. Every one of those men must be choking on their croissants, spilling their orange juice, breaking out in a sweat, feeling a cramp in their stomachs or a loosening of their bowels. They were questioning their little hobby, now weren’t they? Wondering what they could do differently from Philip and Timothy so they could go back to the society but escape the fate of these two. Except even if they braved it, overcame their fright, how good would the sex be now, really?

Under his robe, Paul put his hand around his penis. Squeezing, rubbing, hoping that the elation he was feeling at seeing the article and thinking about the other men suffering would translate into another kind of elation.

If he could be this happy, wouldn’t he be able to get hard?

Nothing was happening.

He tried harder. His mind focused on the image of a woman demanding he undress for her. Of a woman pushing her breasts into his hands and telling him how to touch her. Of a woman standing over him and shoving her pussy into his face.

His flaccid dick betrayed him, and as if it were burning his fingers the way the coffee had scorched the inside of his mouth, he jerked his hand away.

Think about something else, anything else.

He looked down at the newspaper and started to read the article again, savoring the picture of the man’s feet. And the number 2. Envisioning another photograph of another man’s feet with the number 3 on them. And then another with the number 4 on them…

There was no telling how many would meet their fate this way.

He smiled, knowing even if he couldn’t get every kind of pleasure, at least this pleasure was not being denied him.

Picking up the cup of coffee, he drank from it. Bitter, black and lukewarm. It didn’t matter, the only thing he tasted was the sweetness of revenge.