Killers Affair — [LackingInHeart & Death by orgasm]

[Ethoxyethane]

Killers Affair
Read at your own risk. This RP includes very dark elements that range from: violent rape, gore, violence, sadism, torture, murder

---

Lumbertion Correctional Institution

County: Fayentville
Inmate capacity: 768
Inmate gender: Male
Custody level: Medium
Staff size: 260



“Don’t look, Jillian. Don’t look.”

The courtyard of the prison always had the light of it being 4 o’clock. The fences of the perimeter of the property were exceptionally tall constructed with electrical barb wire. It served the purpose to keep intruders out and the inmates inside. A deluge of inmates crowded the part of the fence of the walk way inside the prison and followed the group of staff and visitors, cocks in hands, mechanically jacking themselves off, hungry eyes on the two ladies. Others simply yelled out.

“I’m in god-d’mn prison! I’m in prison, god-d’mnnitt!! Whoo, Sug’r! Finally, I’m in motha’-fuckin’ prison!”

“Give me a call sometime. My Inmate ID number is-”

*Fap* *Fap* *Fap*

Two ladies and an armed man entered the large steel doors that lead inside the prison. The doors shut quicker than it took for it to open. They stood in a brightly lit, gray schemed foyer-like room that branched out to the area of the prison. In the front of them aligned service windows on a wall. Without a word, each walked up to a window in an awkward silence, briefed with the employee at the window their reason for being here today and signed in. Jillian reported she transferred back here as a part of a college program and mentioned that her request to interview inmates for a research paper was to commence today. The other girl worked as a nurse, and the guy as a security officer.

A loud buzz came from some unknown place. It gave them all a bit of a scare and an alarmed expression as they bypassed the second set of doors.

“You two are amazing for walking me in.” Jillian thanked and tucked her short shoulder-length hair behind her ears, the light colored shiny strands flew through her slender digits like silk. “I don’t know how I could do that, even once, by myself back then.”

“Welcome back.” The security officer said sarcastically. He looked to the two ladies in the circle they gathered. “Be safe. Shelly has assigned me to sector 208 today. That’s mean I got to go this way. “ He jabbed a thumb behind him, then unfolded the hand and waved.

The ladies said goodbye to the officer. The nurse wished him luck over in that building.

“And you’re going this way.” The nurse gestured to the long, narrow hallway that laid before their eyes. “To the visitor space. Follow me.” After a moment they were strode down the hall.

The ceilings had height. The same grey scheme as the foyer-like room. Though it did not make the place feel any larger despite the grand height of the ceilings. The halls lacked openness and it was a simple layout. Doors were scattered on either side of the walls every eleven feet or so.

Click, click, click, click, click, click.

“You know, I would invest in some shoes without any kind of heel or shoe that makes nose when you walk if I was you, Jillian.” The nurse told her, whom was behind her.

“Why do you say that?” Jillian inquired. On her feet she wore black leather dress style shoes with matching laces that was hardly a quarter of an inch in height. It was just the style of the soles.

“Yes, yes, I really do.” The nurse, Grace, said firmly. “These lumber-monkeys start masturbating themselves just to the sound of a woman walking near them. I’m telling you, they do not care, they will do it. They will drop trousers and start servicing themselves in the middle of courtyard. Some of them even cut holes in their pockets for easy access. Have you ever watched a documentary about monkeys on the Discovery Channel? Where they go slinging their feces around? Well, the monkeys throw their feces at people. The inmates will try to throw their semen at you, given enough time.”

“What the fuck.” It just came out. Jillian realized that it was not professional and cringed a frown. “What? Why would they do that? What is wrong with them?”

“That’s how you can tell who the rapists are.” Grace raised both her eyebrows and shook her head incredulously with disgust.

“Are they all like that?” Jillian’s voice was high pitched with interest.

Their steps begun to impede as they crossed under a darker area of the hallway. The overhead light was blown. On their right was a thick glass door. “Well…” Grace pressed the intercom button and swiped her ID badge on the landard around her neck. There was another alarming buzz. Grace let Jillian enter first and proceeded to walk ahead of the girl. “Mainly just the rapists.”

“That’s what I meant. They all can’t be that out of loss with self control, right?” The hopefulness in Jillian’s voice caused the nurse to take a double look at her.

Grace placed Jillian’s unusual interest in her academies, and smiled kindly, “Right. I’m sure not every single rapist here does that. This is the only corrections medical institution in all the state, and we’re open 24/7. All the crazies come here.”

Jillian smiled at the word rapist. Her delicate features still held a degree of shock from the cum slinging comment.

“Here we are!” Suddenly Grace announced and came to a halt. She opened the door and they entered.

Again with the same damn gray scheme. Jillian noted. The room was fairly large and had twelve desks facing one another in pairs of two. They were messy and most of them had numerous black and brown coffee- ring stains on the oak wood. Only three of the desks were occupied, two did not look up upon their entrance, only one did. He was expecting her.

“Jillian Grant?” He stood and opened his arms in question. His hair was short and blond and the fronts slicked back to keep the slight curls off his finely wrinkled forehead. He was clad in a suit with variations of gray. Yes, gray. Of course. He was not a tall man, but Jillian was short, so he seemed taller than he really was as he crossed over to greet her with a hand shake. It was a firm handshake and his hand was warm and calmly, like he was just holding a coffee mug. “Of course, that’s you, I remember you. I’m just joshing you. My name is Josh Denis.”

“I remember you.” Jillian interrupted briefly.

“I’ve been expecting you. You’re a little late.” He peered to his wrist watched and shook his head. “I’m early.” He corrected with a warm smile. He directed his attention to Grace, “Thanks for bringing her, Grace. That was very kind of you.”

Grace held up one hand at equal height of the neat bun that sat atop her head, “No, really. I don’t mind!” She insisted. “But I do have to report to my wing. I’ll be back, if not, I’ll see you soon. Jillian. Josh.” And waved on her stride to the door.

“Wait.” Jillian called out. Grace paused and looked over her shoulder. “Should I also invest in a rain coat or something like that? Or do you guys pass those out?” She inquired, partly joking, partly serious.

Grace laughed in good humor. Josh laughed too. “Hopefully you won’t be needing any of that during your visits.” She waved farewell, exited. The door closed softly behind her.

"Al’right, well…” Josh ventured and pointed to the doors at the far back of the room. “These are where the interviews will take place today. We're just gonna launch you right into it." Jillian shot Josh a nervous glance. "They're cuffed and bolted, and promised to be well behaved." Josh lifted his hand and traced a cross with his finger over his heart. He took small steps that encouraged her to follow him to the back of the room. "I already have one waiting for you. There's pen and paper on the table. Are you ready?"

She appeared hesitant, but she was ready. More ready than he could ever know possible. It had been a long three months since she had last been here, the last place she ever thought she would step foot in again, but she could hardly contain the nervous excitement fluttering in her chest. "I'm ready." Jillian said resolutely.

There seemed to be a force field at the threshold of the door acting as a means to ward her off. Guided by Josh's hand twisting the door knob, the door opened, instantaneously broke past it and the strange room was available.

Jillian entered the room.

Josh introduced them.​

 

[Death by orgasm]

RE: Killers Affair - [LackingInHeart & Death by orgasm]

On the other side of that thick, heavy door was a small room that had enough space to sit a table of people, but no more than that. The light grey room was well lit, with a stainless steel table that was bolted to the ground as well as one occupied chair.

On the side of the table, sat Maximilian Ingle. Standing 6'1" with thick short curly hair, a narrow face, a large pair of eyeglasses on. With a slightly crooked jaw, could only smirk; the other half just couldn't curl up. He had been sitting with this headed bow down just a little bit. He had been staring at that blank yellow legal pad and pen that sat on the other side of the table like a manic. He was a drawer, at least an amet one. That was the one think that they had refused him while he was in there. They felt that him expressing himself via pen and paper was too much. That made him furious. He also was dying to know what she was going to be filling those pages with in terms of notes. What if she didn't any notes? He tried to push the idea out of his mind.

Minutes later he could hear the distinct click-clacking of high heels approaching on the other side of the door, raising his head he was at attention when the duo walked into the room. The sound of his rattling chains and handcuffs pulled tight allowing him only to stand mostly. Bowing his head, he sat back down. Staring at the woman over the top of his glasses, she was a slender woman with short hair tucked back behind her ears. She was dressed conservatively for the visit, ideally for obvious reasons.

Josh introduced the two, "This is Ms. Grant, who will be talking to you this after noon. This is Maxillian Ingle, he has two counts of alleged homicide, which were dismissed for lack of evidence. There were no other lead suspects; still open cases. Three counts of violent rape, and nearly a dozen counts of sexual assault."

Josh turning to Max, "I expect you on your best behavior, nothing less than that." Approaching back toward the door, he pulled Jillian aside and in a very hushed voice. "Don't tell these people your first name." Exiting out the door he turned back, "Max, be a good. Ms. Grant, I'll be near by attending to a few things. There are two guards out in this lobby, on call for you. So if you need anything, just give them a shout and they'll be in faster than you can blink."

The door closed shut as he walked out, echoing into the room as Ms. Grant took her seat. Max leaned back into his chair trying to get as comfortable as he could given that he can't move his chair so he'd just have to get by however he can. Deciding to break the silence, "I like those shoes a lot," chuckling to himself and then quiting down. Sniffling, bending over to scratch his nose he, shook his hair back a little bit he postured up sizing up Ms. Grant again.

"I hope the boys in the yard welcomed you in like the true gentlemen that they are. Some people are just desperate to show of their little cocks." Squinting at the woman on the other side of the table, "So how can I help you Ms. Grant--how old are you? What's this exactly about? Are you some journalist, or some psych major doing her thesis? We don't get many strangers coming around here to visit us. Let alone cute ones; you're certainly a breath of fresh air."

Shifting around in his seat some more trying to get comfy, "These fuckers don't have a comfy chair in the whole fucking place." Bending over taking his glasses off and folding them and setting them aside, fidgeting with them until they were just exactly so at the angle he pleased. Folding his hands on the table clearing his throat, "So shall we get started? I'm a little shy, so if you're looking to hear something specific, just gotta say it. I'm not great a flirting." Again just chuckling to his own joke.

 

[Ethoxyethane]

RE: Killers Affair - [LackingInHeart & Death by orgasm]

The first thing Jillian did was look through the chain man standing. The rattle of the chains had caught Josh's attention and Jillian distractedly cock her head to the left, no camera, she thought. There was a large rectangular mirror, one way, she did not need to guess, she knew it was one way mirror; during the tour of her first and last visit to the prison they had informed her that every mirror in this place was a one way mirror, to spy on the criminals. What she had to take an educated guess at was no one was behind it to watch her during her sessions. Her head rolled to the right, a feint a neck stretch if Josh happened to direct his attention back at her, the steadiness of her pupils investigated the area of the ceiling, like she was doing wrong and were to get in trouble if caught. Ah, there! A security camera. Only one. She thought one a bit strange, then again Lumbertion made up for it in areas with a higher inmate concentration. The camera wires were colors of the American flag: red, white and blue cords fed the thin mangle bunch through a hole in the ceiling, to some unknown place. It was positioned at the shackled man and only the back of her head would show up on the fed-screen.

Jillian poised her head back erect and hasted her eyes to look at Josh just a second before he imported his attention to her with the introduction of Maxillian Ingle.

Maxillian Ingle.

She had not the time to get a good look at him, and her eyes widened at the morsel of knowledge she was about to. Jillian recalled how she pictured this moment to be on her hour-long drive out here. She drove a somewhat beat-up black Ponatic Grand-Am, that up until last week had a few red and green zip ties holding the bumper to the hunk of metal- she called it The Christmas Mobile. It was in need of a new bumper, and just in time for the drive, though there were other problems with the vehicle that made the drive eminently uncomfortable. It reeked of cigarette smoke. But this was all about to be worth it, in the next moment. Her chest half puffed with translucent nervous excitement. A slight hesitation of savory cast before her gaze flicked over to the plain man in the ugly orange jumpsuit. Admittedly, she was a bit astonished that this man was here. What she had pictured was a street thug with too many tattoos or some jacked meathead with 'roid rage, someone with an edge. Apart from those glazed over eyes he was not what she had expected. Jillian tilted her head slightly and inhaled through her relaxed lips, regarding him with curiosity.

At Josh's announcement of this Maxillian Ingle's crimes, or lack there of, she half stepped back to shift her weight closer to the door, her eyes cranked to the floor, focused on a chipped chunk of slate gray tile. Jillian Grant thought it was symbolic in the sense that she too was missing a piece of something that was supposed to be here: a real criminal. This little dork was not what she wanted. Everything about him screamed 'frat-boy mishap', even his snob rich-boy name was a total sell out. He kinda looked like one of those assholes from the news for some trivial hooligan nonsense, he had to be one of them, he fit the bill. 'Maxillian'. She pressed her lips together in a tight smile of disappointment that still an air of politeness, even though it looked as though it pained her to do so.

Josh whispered to her to not tell her first name, though his rasp tone was hardly one for a secret. A fleeting thought possessed Jillian to request she skip this man. She was so lost in her own thoughts and motives that Jillian had missed that window. Josh was on his way out. She found herself nodding to his departure and forcing herself to the chair. The door shut, it caught her eye and followed the swing.

Be positive. At least he's not dangerous. And you can be pretty damn sure this dork won't sling cum at you. No rain coat with this one. She smiled to herself and glanced over at him. Honoring the pad of paper and pen she placed her entire small palm on it, dragged it to her with a *swoosh*, and pinched the pen between her fingers in one fluent move. All she had to do was get through this one and proceed to next. She would think of him as practice. A warm up for the other men, real criminals, that were supposed to be shackled to that chair in place of him.

The man shattered the silence. Jillian did not see him as a threat, but for some reason when he mentioned her shoes, it made her tense up and cringe. Dragging each sole to hide under chair from view, only to suddenly draw them back to the bright light of the room. Jillian gave a shake of her head and half smirked at herself, she remembered that she should not care what remarks this man made. She looked down to her shoes and lifted one foot to dangle in the air, enough only to draw attention. The black shone an reflected from the light above. "Oh, you do like them? They don't really have a heel..." She smirked, gauging his reaction. Even stil... Grace was right, buy new shoes. ...ASAP. The shoe lowered and rested over its twin.

He did not just shatter the silence, now he bombed it, awkwardly so, even at that. It was amusing. She furrowed her eyebrows and her eyes zoned out, looking some place else, in search for the world that he was in. The ball was in her court, yet he still jabbered.

She participated and responded to the small cock comment, "At least they reminded me I need to buy baby carrots."

Her doe brown eyes finally returned and adjusted to the reality of the room. She showed blithe disregard for his unimportant utterance by holding up a single hand. Half of what he said did not even register. "Okay..." she shook her head slightly a blinked a few times. And retorted dripping sarcasm, "I would have never guessed you bad at flirting. What with your, what, 6 month jail sentence?" she tapped the pen on the paper and looked at him inquiringly with a tilted head, her tone fused to a condescending one, "You should write a book while you're in about it, at what a great flirt you are, that is."

"Anyway..." Jillian huffed toward the floor and half leaned back in the metal chair. Her eyes dropped to the yellow pad and scribbled something. It was actually nothing, she just wanted to express the illusion of being busy, unavailable to him. 'What uh--" she paused to search for.. a question to ask him, and nothing really came to find, she was too concerned with ending this already, eager to get to the next one. "W-what are you even in here for? Seriously, for real? I don't buy what Joshua said you weren't charged for" She lifted her free hand and her slender and pale middle and index finger curled to into a air quote "Just be honest so we can get this over with, okay? When are your parent's going to post your bail, or visit you with cookies, or whatever it is they do for you or they let you do in prison?" The pen tapped one, two, three, four times trailing impatient black dots on the yellow paper. Again.

Was it over yet? Jillian already constitute with herself that she wanted nothing to do with him before he even opened his mouth. She knew all she needed to know already. The girl was here for far much more than mere interviews, a far more personal and selfish reason, even if she did not want to admit to herself.

 

[Death by orgasm]

RE: Killers Affair - [LackingInHeart & Death by orgasm]

Looking over the edge of the table as she showed her shoe momentarily before hiding them again from plain sight, Max glanced at her shoes then returning his gaze back on the woman before him. Making a face that showed his distaste as she not only ignored his questions as to her intentions and then continues to go as far to belittle him and his conviction as a criminal? Who the hell on earth did this woman thinks she is? Coming into a jail getting a handful of criminals for an interview style discussion and then getting lippy on top of it? Posturing up in his chair his hunched over the table leaning on his elbows facing her, looking her up and down again real good then returning his gaze of annoyance, "So I don't know what you are or why you're here? Most psych majors introduce themselves with their school and degree study. Journalists usually are going for an angle and explain what they're trying to do."

Crossing his hands together diddling his thumbs around, letting a moment of silence fill the room, "But then there's you who walk-in and expect me to tell you something like I actually killed people despite what the court says? You're crazy Ms. Grant. Let alone, mocking me all at the same time? You gotta be fucking kidding me." Leaning back into his chair he slowly cracked each of his fingers, both joints on each, bending and popping his digits on all of his hands. Extending and closing his hands a few times before returning his attention to his visitor.

Leaning back onto the table his eyes traced along her faces and contours, tracing over his slender neck, until her flesh was met by her clothing. Examining her shoulders and frame, he mentally speculated on her body and what she looked like underneath the formal attire. She was a petite little thing, he assumed she had some nice curves on her, but they were all hidden away.

"I'm not going to tell you anything that would contradict anything that was said during any of my trials. You're not a criminal until you get caught, at least in my book. I can't go spilling all my dirty laundry. This isn't how that works generally." Sniffling, rubbing his nose and then scratching his head of hair a little bit he continued his train of thought, "I have only about three to four months left on my sentence here because despite my several sexual assault and 'violent' rape charges is because I happened to have some valuable on an open case of theirs by sheer coincidence. So my 5 year jail sentence was talked down to 9 months with weekly parole for a year; and more on the officers discretion." His emphasis on violent mimicking her finger motions as he rambled off.

"Seeing as that I'm not inclined to speak about hypotheticals revolving around those alleged homicide and and manslaughter charges. I'm afraid that will be a dead end for you Ms. Grant. However, I am entirely open to talk about any of my rape charges, victims, or sexual assault charges. The real difference between those charges are the lack of evidence; I've had many other charges of rape and assault dismissed because there was nearly no proof of force or resistance." Looking down at the table momentarily to gather his thoughts. Rubbing his hands over his face, massaging his eyes and temple as he reclined in the chair as much as he could relaxing and taking a small break from the conversation. He was still rather annoyed at her tone and belittling remarks she made.

Returning his attention to her, he smiled at her, "Like I said, I'm willing to talk about why I like getting off on assaulting cunty mouthed woman, just like yourself--which I would, you look like you'd be fun to slap around--we can get into that. But you should explain yourself and your intentions better if you want this to continue in any form or fashion. Don't mistake me as a petty boy you is living off a trust fund and my parents come to my rescue."

Maximilian leaned back into his chair giving his interviewer the window she would have asked for to walk right out the door. Sniffling again, and rubbing his nose again, he was more than interested in this girl who walks into a jail with balls big enough to rival half the inmates.

 

[Ethoxyethane]

RE: Killers Affair - [LackingInHeart & Death by orgasm]

The little dork did not so much as stare at her shoe. Not that he even had the chance, but if anything that little display was not only meant to mock him, she knew that if he was what she wanted that there would be.... something. She did not know what, all she knew was that there would a clear indicator that just maybe—huge maybe— she was wrong, which she doubted although she hoped. That was not the case here. His chances went from zero to negative three. Might as well be negative three hundred. She was done.

As he spoke, to her, she assumed since there was no one else in the room, Jillian wondered if he was generally talkative or if the situation of being away from women bought it out in him. He did seem nervous—at least a little awkward—and the thought reminded her of the still tapping pen in her right hand. Sighing with exasperation, she killed the flexing of her hand, the tip of the black ballpoint barely resting on the pad of yellow paper. She shuffled in the chair with sudden urge to get away from him for forever. She lost interest in honoring the pad of paper and ballpoint pen, the pen went limp in her now relaxed digits. Her feet stretched to the front of her five inches apart and she leaned forward, about to stand up and walk out. But then...

"Like I said, I'm willing to talk about why I like getting off on assaulting cunty mouthed woman, just like yourself--which I would, you look like you'd be fun to slap around--we can get into that.[...]"

Her weight shifted to the sole of her left foot before her weight shifted back to the chair. Suddenly, she decided to stay, for at least a few more minutes. If she did not think he needed a good mouthing off to she would have the sense to get up and be done with it, stop wasting her time here. When he said that the entirety of her stiffened, yielding her stand as her jaw went slack. His words excited her.

She was getting to him. She did this all the time. She had to find the one thing about somebody that they hold dear most and use it against them. In the case with this dork, it was not a far cry to take an educated guess of his dislike for cunty women and being treated with disrespect. What had she got to lose? Nothing. She was going for it.

"Do you want me to stop being a cheeky cunt?" She smiled nastily. Her right hand lightly gripped the pen again. Her left hand clutched the side of the cold gray metal chair and used that arm to support herself. "And you know what? You're right. You petty rich little frat boys like slapping women around. I see it on the news all the time. 'Drunk frat boy rapes drunk sorority girl'. Then the boys start getting blamed for incidents left and right. It must suck that you're one of the few to actually land some jail time." she paused to hope she did not get stuck interviewing one of his circle-jerk pals that were likely serving jail time with him. "And boo-hoo you even got accused for 'murder'. Which, even if you did kill someone, you didn't, because you probably just left her laying on her back, drunk, knocked out, then she vomited, choked on her puke and died." She mocked a frown. "Accident." She said disapproving. "Parent of the year goes to..." Her lips squished together as she shook her head, trying not to laugh, and directed her attention to the space between them on the table. Her eyes alight with genial amusement.

Not that she was one to talk. She was here with personal ....and educational... business to... get better acquainted with a murderer. She was just curious. Curious as to why they do the thing that they do, how, when, why, everything. She firmly told herself and allowed those thoughts to go no further, before they got dangerous. But he did not know that. He did not know anything about her except her attitude problem.

"Another thing, you're also right about—" lifting her head and neat eyebrows at him "introducing the reason of this interview. I'm only a student, guess I haven't learned those type of professional mannerisms yet." The mannerisms part was a lie, obvious by the small smirk hooking the corners of her lips. "I'm here doing research for my thesis on the mind of rapists and murderers, murder is the contingency for rapist though. I'm hoping my research will make creating my official thesis statement more clear. I suppose they gave me you as a warm up?" Her eyes widened and lower lip pouted questionably, asking herself, not him. At least that's the way she viewed it. "Because I guess the facility needs to take precautions when dealing with a young woman interviewing criminals."

There was change that came upon the room, extremely subtle, yet momentous. It was as if the lights in the gray interview room had a dimmer and were unnaturally dropped half way, like dusk. The temperature of the room became as though breathing came with difficultly, dense and thick. At once a change could be noticed on Jillian Grant's face and voice. "I want a real," she cocked her head forward "convicted of murder, killer." and leaned her torso against the edge of the hinged table, as though sharing a secret. It was. She was. It was the truest thing to ever spray from her lips. There was not one thing more true she could have possibly said the entire day. Even her name, Jillian, who was Jillian? She did not know her name in comparison of these truths.

Maybe that momentous scene was just in Jillian's alerted mind.

The girl rapidly blinked, eyes sauntered to the side, and she reclined back against the hard chair at the realization of what she just revealed. She attempted to remember the level of intensity to determine her next best move, but her mind was too scattered to be composed and flicked her vacant gaze at the pastel yellow pad of paper, blank with the exception of a scribble and trail marks of dots, still nonetheless the page was blank. A blank page can be scary thing. There's no direction and it's primed for any word, story, drawing, anything.

Shrugging, she sloppily wrote down his name and X'ed it out with three lines each cross. Her chocolate brown eyes flicked from the paper to peer through her rich, dark lashes at him. "How do you spell your name, Mr. Maximilian Ingle?" asked Jillian with a malignant smile. She addressed people formally as a mean of derision, most of the time, and most of the time it was her own little joke she shared with herself.

 

[Death by orgasm]

As Maximilian threw that insult at her, Ms. Grant was sure to answer back with all sass and throwing her sharp tongue around at Max. She went ahead, assuming that Max was just another frat boy who was someone who had been lost inhibition while drinking at a party. Forcing himself on to a girl who had been denying his advances, he raped her. As Ms. Grant spoke, the shaggy blond hair boy chuckled under his breath, staring her dead in her brown eyes. His shyness had slipped away, he could see through her facade, whatever she was trying to hide, he knew her front was false. His confidence was growing, his gaze was stuck to her eyes. She was undermining him and his true psychopathic tendencies. Smirking when she elaborated on how he probably left some poor girl unconscious who choked on her own vomit. Shaking his head from side to side as she went on saying how she was looking for an authentic killer, but there needed to be rape for her to use those individuals. As she muttered that she was needed a real killer, her train of thought seemed to subsided, she commented that she supposed that Max was just a warm up for her.

Max cocked his head to the side was very unamused with Ms. Grant on all levels. Maintaining eye contact, he leaned in just how she had when she was sharing her 'secret' with him. "Well Ms. Grant, I have my own thoughts on your own assumptions. Given that you don't have a concrete idea, that you're trying to prove to your University, I won't hold your theories on me too highly." Glancing over his shoulder to look at the single camera in the room, he returned his attention to Ms. Grant, "I wouldn't lump me into those drunk frat monkies who just wanted to get laid. The main difference is that, they aren't rapists who intended to rape. Sure they did rape in the end, but that wasn't their goal. Simply a means to an end, Ms Grant. I get off the power and dominance--you know like a rapist." Maintaining eye contact with Ms. Grant, he was feeling much more in his element in this interview.

Leaning back he still stared at her chocolate eyes, almost daring her to look away from him down. Folding his arms across his chest, he continued his retort, "All that about me just leaving girls to choke on their vomit. I'll have to politely let you continue believing whatever fabric you're weaving in your head." Twisting his face into a look of disdain for Ms. Grant he continued, "I don't need to prove anything to you about my merits as a criminal. I don't need people digging into those cases any further. They brought me because I definitely fit into your criteria for whatever you're getting the jail to round us up for interviews about." Breaking eye contact to look down at the table, he gathered his next words, "And I'm the warm-up? Whatever you say honey, you seem like you needed the warm up to get your story straight, then by all means work out the kinks in your 'thesis'." Making his fingers into the mock quotation marks, he knew this woman wearing slight heels into a high-security jail was a joke from the moment she walked in.

Leaning back in getting as close to Ms. Grant, he wasn't studying her but the blank legal pad that she had be so kind to leave nearly entirely blank aside from a few wispy scribbles. His eyes moved up to meet her chocolate eyes again, he studied her face, and the contours of her neck until they disappeared beneath her formal attire. He was obvious as he checked her out. His eyes darting back to the blank notebook, his narcissism flared up on the inside. Was he not interesting enough for her? Apparently he was boring her. I mean it was more obvious from her lack of overall interest.

Then she finally asked him how he spelled his name, as she wrote it down as close as she could from the sound of it. Looking back down at the note pad as she crossed his name out, with an large exaggerated 'X'. That was the last straw, his inner ego just couldn't handle that. His snapped at her, "Spell it however you want bitch, I think we're done here." Right as Ms. Grant looked up after his last sentence he had been waiting for that. Gathering his spit in his mouth as he stood to the best of his ability to and spit down directly into her eyes. Sitting back down calmly, he took several deep breathes. He knew that the guards would be into escort him out of there shortly. He was also sure that he would receive some sort of punishment for that last act.

Part of himself was mad for letting her get the best of him, but he wasn't kidding when he said she was cheeky cunt. The next few moments seemed like months as he silently seethed. The last thing he'd mutter to her was, "Don't insult ME, when you don't even know who the fuck YOU are."

 

[Ethoxyethane]

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Jillian's beaming lips strangled a grin to his profound mockery, and that to her, he unknowingly referenced himself as one of those said frat monkeys; because that's only what Jillian saw him for. Typical of wild frat boys to diverge in misplacing blame on the women. Such a waste of education, though Jillian did certainly enjoy the haunting in his unyielding stare. It would give her a good something to laugh about later, it really would, a great laugh. She did not dart her eyes from his,, even though she thought something in his glazed over eyes creepy, until the brief silence between them and drew them to the pad of paper.

Admittedly, she found his references to a real rapist enthralled by the idea of it, but it was evident from the whisked-like enlarged eyes that her self interested could not be concealed. Other than that, he was right: he was boring her. Still she bemusedly saw him as guarding his silly self found 'social status'.

"You are excused, though no one asked you if I care what you believed in of me." T'wasn't the best thing Jillian always did, and even in her attitude she could gain the upper hand because she never striven for it, she expected so, and her attitude could grant her that on it own, as was expected here with this little dork. However, he gave her no such thing. Instead it enraged her, a anger that more so amused her than anything else He could call her endearing names, claim she does not know her self 'till her eyebrows knitted and politely shook her head to substitute rolling her eyes- which she did anytime he displayed such behaviors. She looked at him.

SPIT

At once Jillian naturally flinched and stood, metal chair legs scarped against the gray floor. A shutter of disgust compulsively shrilled a yell for the "security!" and to the very heels that cursed her in this prison. His aim was practiced, but spit was weak; easily wiped away with three firm swipes from her sleeves. She glared daggers at his idle seething form. She might need to substitute a raincoat for sunglasses.

The guards were in before she yelled for them and two large men attired in uniform seized the disruptive prisoner and assertively escorted him out. The door left ajar, Josh cued his presence with sincere apologies of the happening. He offered her a tissue and means to go home, both which she rejected with a smile. She cleaned up in the bathroom and proceeded with the remainder of the interviews... with real criminals hopefully. She met some questionable characters. Some of which seemed promising and while cordial in the situation there were others she wished to never again. Some intimidated her, with others she was not very impressed. One prisoner's face was masked in tattoos, the largest was a sling-shot on his right bony cheek. Before the day was out and the interviews came to an end, Josh escorted her out commented that she had the smile of her mom and dad, the same proud smile.

Nine years ago, when Jillian was fourteen, her parents died in a car accident on their way to one of the largest party cities of them all: Las Vegas; only it was their party that got crashed. She went to live with her grandmother until she turned eighteen, moved out and got a place of her own. The most strong memory she had of her parents was of her mother hunched over the kitchen table, her eyes a pair of red puffy weights, stubbing out the wrinkled joint she tried to pass off as a cigarette and her dad, more impregnably fat and greasy-looking in the intervals that she saw him, distant and accompanied with beer and work. The Grants' were not rich, not poor either, though closer to the latter and left Jillian with everything they owned: the beat up Pontiac Grandam, the classic furniture pieces and household items, and two thousand dollars. When she was younger she thought it was a bizarre thing to do for a girl they did not know very well. Their untimely death did not quite lose Jillian on her track; it lost her.

Later that week, Jillian had volunteered to offer her help in dissection, again, for the fifth year. She sat on her crouched calves, the heels of her foot arched up slightly off the floor, back used a wall for support, suffocating latex gloves webbed her tiny digits, ugly too big googles atop her oval shaped face. A professor gave her a scare at her sudden appearance to the outside of the classroom and her question to if "are you ready, Jillian?"

The melancholy almost compelled her to her feet at the confirmation she was doing this to herself again. Jillian responded, "Just a minute" never once even turning her head to the professor whom then left Jillian alone again as she retreated to the classroom.

A minute later Jillian entered the lab room. She provided expert-like advice to those students who shrieked in terror to the variety of dead animals corpse vacuum sealed in plastic wrap: fetal pigs, rats, squids, worms, clams, birds, frogs, and more.

Jillian went right home after that, drenched in repulsion that she enjoyed the day's occurrences; the wetness in her panties was the reminder. On the drive home she vehemently promised herself a binding oath to bathe away the day. An oath forsaken. Instead Jillian Grant allowed herself to feel sick to the point of thinking she should probably try to vomit several times through out the day that she likely had animal guts and fragments flaked in her hair as she did homework assignments and ate a sandwich and suppressed the urge to Google some of the criminals she interviewed the other day in fear it might put her off on them if done too soon, next time, and lounged around her house until she did not arbor such feelings; and a urge to masturbate pulled her form to her bed. She stripped, threw her clothing on the floor, hopped her bare butt on the bed, back on plush pillows, and extracted a small purple vibrator from under her pillow. She spat on it one, two, three, four times on each side before sliding between the feminine folds of her labia to give it lucubration.

She was going through one of many fluctuation periods where she did not watch porn. She did this when she had to watch porn that got progressively darker and darker just to get turned on. Instead, she had still frames of half-naked females and males on her phone gallery icon. Feverishly, she swiped through pictures that captured her interests and made her thrust the through those swollenly aroused pussy lips. Jillian reclined her head and released a pleasureful moan and again and again with each pump. The next picture [don't look] of a dissected pregnant rat enstilled Jillian with horrid alarms and reluctance to pump. But she did.

"Damn it!" Jillian whimpered as though the very thing she attempted to repel broke through and was presented to her. She hurriedly threw her phone to the floor in disgust, retaining her concentration on masturbating, she was so close and knew if she ceased her efforts she would not be able to cum, so she squeezed her eyelids shut. She thought she deleted all those pictures. At once she recalled the way it felt. She recalled the way it smelt. The images burned into her eyelids, becoming more real with the power used to shut them, her entire world was consumed with visuals that pulsed through her head and throbbed down into her throat, and pressed at her loins in a sick, sexual fashion, imprinting it inside of Jillian disregarding her will to ban them.

"Oh, fuuuck!" Hissed Jillian in a fragile, gasping voice. She did not cease her thrusting, she picked up the pace. The slapping of her palm bouncing off her clit became lewdly wet. "You're a dirty whore, Jill. Dirty w— you're a — d-d-dir-dirty-fucking-whore." A self-loathing, a self-pitying disgust plastered Jillian's face and it gave a violent speed to her hand and the sex toy pumping in and out of her. Jillian heaved inhales and exhales, thrusting with fury until she had an orgasm of pain. Her stomach was in knots from the intentional aggressive pumps. Jillian needed it to hurt. She was a bad, dirty, nasty girl.

It was not a good orgasm. She did not enjoy it.

Soon after she crossed to a photo frame that decored her dark brown bedroom dresser, cursed the person in the picture for doing this to her: not the masturbation, she very well knew she did that to herself, and then she smashed it into shards of glass pieces on the wood floor.

Another week later Jillian Grant sat on a metal chair in the same daunting colored gray roomed she did interviews in last week, legs crossed, foot loosely tapping in the air as she awaited the little dorks' arrival. She had decided that she will see him again after that little spit stunt of his, at least for even still, a warm up, maybe? A chair was pulled further from the desk and prisoner chair bolted to the floor, a small table provided for the pad of legal yellow paper and a pen. She was not attired in a raincoat or sunglasses, though she wore fashionable black sneakers.

 

[Death by orgasm]

Maximilian was escorted out the the interview roughly by two guards after Jillian had been escorted out. They manhandled him around as they tossed him back into his cell, the guards grumbled about him getting extra time and all sorts of rhetoric about him going to get punished. He had a meeting with the Director the next day. Who promised to do all of the same thing and more that the guards had promised. Threatening to extend his sentence to in a multi-year sentence, hard labor and so-on. Max politely tried to explain that her lack of professionalism, and overall lewd conduct of an interview fell on dead ears. The Director told him if he behaved perfectly for her next two meeting that he wouldn't penalize him for his foolish, and brash actions. Max was surprised to hear that he would be seeing her again at all after the incident. He honestly didn't want to see her again, but if that was part of his terms then he guess he would have to comply with the rest of whatever she needed. Coming to an agreement, Max was escorted back to his cell.

Over the course of the next week, Max's thoughts had become rampantly repetitive around Ms. Grant. While he was still entirely irked about how she was asking such brazen questions without any proper introduction or purpose. Max recognized trouble when he saw it, especially the silent and unsuspecting ones. Maximilian's image and general persona didn't scream criminal, he just looked like a young kid who was in an orange jumper. She suspected him as a frat boy, who liked to date-rape girls. The more he thought about her and how arrogant and condescending she was being it only enraged him. He thought long and hard about all of the terrible things that he'd do to her, fuck her face until she passed out, whip her into shreds, rape her ass so she couldn't touch a chair for a week. His mind swirled with frustration and mania. However mad he was about her, he knew that he would have to literally leave it all aside and just have a short winded conversation with her and get her out of his face. He fell asleep each night masturbating of the the memory of the sound of her heels as they clicked across the tiles. The looks of disgust across her face as the spit landed in her face, cumming wishing that he could do more than just spit in her face.

Max talked to as many rapists who he knew within the prison over the course of a week. He wasn't able to find a single person who was also interviewed by Ms. Grant. Not having a clue as to how many people she was interviewing, his search was futile. Max was narcissistically mentally reliving his most current crimes over the last 2 years. He was a far bigger rapist than he was a murderer. Murderer generally get caught before a rapist does; only killing when a window was left open for him to climb through metaphorically speaking. His list of killings was enough to fit on a single hand. He rarely killed on a whim or impulse. There were some exceptions to that. He had killed one person on impulse, and one person for hire.

The for hire job was when he was passing through a town while traveling. Max meet this man in a random bar one night, staying until last call he meet a very drunk man who had been screwed out of a few million dollars due to poor work and no permits. The target was a contractor who had screwed over the large property dealer. The target had offered him an offer that was too good to be true, he seemed genuine all around. He had delivered on his end of the deal, and everything looked good. Until he got audited on several properties, the fees came out to three-forths of this gentlemen's worth. They talked as they exited the bar, Max jokingly said he'd kill for him 500k, and the drunk man told him he would give him 750k. Max took the man's phone number down, and said good night. Several days later contacting the man when he was sober. His bar friend insisted that he still wanted the man dead at the price he had quoted him a few night earlier.

Max had to stay in that town for three more days to locate, study, and track his target. He saw a good window of opportunity as he followed him out to a construction site on the outskirts of town. Despite being the middle of the day, it was isolated, passing only two other cars tailing him out of the town. He had parked a few blocks away, walking up to the construction site with only a revolver. He wasn't an assassin, with silenced pistols and fancy equipment. He only needed a weapon, any weapon and he'd take care of it. Approaching the man claiming to be lost, "Hey man, sorry for tailing you but I just need to find my way back to the highway." The stranger in the hardhat was annoyed but would give him directions as long as he got the hell out of his construction site. As he turned to point back towards the road they had came in on, Max extended him arm to this temple shooting him at point blank twice. He dropped on the first, the second was a guarantee. Max had collected him money, told his bar friend that all the proof would be on the evening news. No witnesses, no leads.

Max's mind and ego tortured himself looking for validation to throw at her, not that he wanted to prove her wrong. However, he did want to let her know that she was entirely mistaken on who she perceived him to be.

***

The day of the second interview Max had spent the better part of his morning masturbating and meditating. He was trying to release any extra testosterone that may make him overly-aggressive like last time. Trying to quite his inner rage and his own egotism he slowly came to a calmed center of mind as the two guards from last week dropped by his cell to collect him for the interview.

The guards were just as rough as they were escorted him after last week's incident. They clearly remembered Max's stunt at the end, but he didn't care for them. He knew that Ms. Grant wouldn't have forgotten him so soon. Max expected her to be far more condescending and dismissive of Max the second time around. She would have to put on this persona that he was untouchable by him; even though he had already disproved that.

Returning to the same room he had been interviewed in, the placed Max into his seat, and this time the chains on the handcuffs didn't allow him to stand from the table. They intended to keep him sitting like a good boy. Making the off-comment to the guards, "I can still spit across the room even if I'm seated." Slapping him across the back of the head, they left and several minutes later would return with Ms. Grant in their company. The guards stared with beams of hatred at Max, as he flicked his hand at them in the motion to get out of the room. The grumbling guards left them alone the still silence filled the room.

Sizing up Ms. Grant, she still was adorned in professional attire, and she even had the decency to wear sneaker this time around. Leaning back in his bolted down iron chair, he did his best attempt to get comfortable with his limited mobility. "So you missed me as much as I missed you?" He could feel Ms. Grants eyes rolling in the back of her head, even if she didn't actually roll her eyes. Giggling at his own bad pun, he cleared his throat, "But no really--I understand that these meeting have been prearranged and are mandated. So I will try to be more to your assistance this time around." Finishing his thought, he sucked on his teeth and inspected Ms. Grant again, "Perhaps we should reintroduce ourselves. Since you've had a little practice you could properly bring up why you're here. And I'll try to push my selfish insecurities aside and give you something useful. After all this should be a mutually beneficial interaction."

Shifting his butt in the metal chair he struggled to get comfortable, yanking on the short handcuff chains, "They're keeping me on a tighter leash." After some more shifting in his seat, he ended up in the only position he could get a little comfy in, "I was told I am to apologize for my behavior of last week. I do deeply apologize for that, I haven't slept much because of how ridden with guilt I am." Smirking to himself, he covered his tracks, "But all sarcasm aside...I'd like this meeting to end on slightly better terms, maybe you can spit on me." Max was still a genuine jokester, even if only he only laughed at his own jokes.

 

[Ethoxyethane]

Jillian sat confidently erect in the chair about eight paces from Mr. Ingle, which provided the room with a stern estimation of what absent tolerance level Jillian would have set aside for the little dork today. She drew the dull grey scene from her surroundings and the nostalgic memory of not too long ago and suddenly seemed to employ an investment in this criminal meeting situation. You're here for a reason. Jill...She would try her best to approach him civilly with interest of his speech, open to hear him out, to see what he was about. She had not yet fully decided on that, but all together had supposed that if she were to see him today she would allow him the opportunity to at least humor her with whatever spill of words vomit from his mouth. Preferred if he kept his spit inside it this time. He still did not stand a chance for her interest though.

She was not one to be fussy when it came to the assigned criminals regarding these temporary interviews. But to hell with it all. The line had to be drawn when concerning this dork- technically criminal, vaguely so, aware she was- and the objective for her thesis statement. Which remained unclear. That was when she reminded herself of her lack of desire to conduct her thesis on something perpendicularly personal in her life. Concurrently it was painfully obvious that this was indeed a splendid topic to diverge her thesis on; accounting her unusually curious interests on death, murder, and rape. But for some reason Jillian could not pin point a statement. Nothing came to mind.

So when he purchased an heavy eye roll from Jillian Grant with his trite frat-boy ego of her missing him, she rewired her bored eyes to her right hand that held the pen to the same pastel yellow paper provided like last week. Her hand looked dead. Face fixed into a calm focus.

She smiled at the thought of returning his spit gesture. Otherwise there was something impenetrably calm in her demeanor.

"Today was a lovely dark morning. The sun a dark orange. The clouds a dark blue." She reset the scene with implications of his probable lack of dawn and dusk knowledge since prison would not allow such luxuries.

"My father was good friends with your director. Maybe the only reason I am seeing you again is to hear your apology for his benefit." It was not a lie. The greater part of this second meeting though was... well, why was she here again indeed? Jillian could not deliver a consensus on the matter other than the inarticulate idea that this second meeting signaled her negligence regarding his impulsive spit act of rebellion.. "Yes, guilt. An emotion I'm sure you understand. I know you only committed unintentional crimes." Of that there was no doubt in her mind. Her delicate face searched with a faint strain to even imagine what she said next, "Or here, I'll humor you, if 'intentional' your 'crimes' were..." her face sauntered to her free left hand, stifling a throaty chuckle with her palm, "remorse still racks you. Don't worry though, your time is almost up in here, plenty of time to mend your mess ups of life and get back to your failing grades in school. You seem like a nice boy, a little troubled, but you're just a bit of a trouble boy." She did not dart her eyes to his. She assumed he would have a hint of disdain or perplexity and uttered, "I'm sorry, was I being too subtle?" and clarified for him in case he needed it, "You can go back to normal life after prison and forget the mistakes you made to land you here."

Mr. Maximilian Ingle was not heavy fleshed or grossed body as one or two of the other prisoners she had met. Like him, some of the other inmates were young, though Maximilian had a more spaced out distance from reality in his eyes and his face more intelligent than the others.

"Now it's your turn to humor me. Help a student with her thesis. Your only chance. What are your mistakes, Mr. Maximilian Ingle?" Asked Jillian with a malignant smile painted from the same brush as their first meeting.

 

[Death by orgasm]

As Ms. Grant got comfortable in her chair, she addressed Max after she had broken the silence. She was seemed very disconnected form the entire thing, her gaze was not on Max, nor anywhere in the room; staring off into the distance she rambled around what she was trying to get out. She rambled about the colors over the atmosphere and the details of how she got herself here. The Director was a family friend of her father's. Her past tense use of her father either meant they were no longer on good terms, or her father had passed away. He assumed the last one considering that she was here with such privileged having as many takes at the inmate that she wanted. Her rambles took twists and turns, she persisted that he hadn't committed the crimes that he was accused of. But then in either a change or heart, or just purely to humor him, she have him the benefit of the doubt that he actually had done his crime in malicious intent. After that her words trailed off, she got the simplified version of her bumbling speech, Tell me what you did, it doesn't matter, you're walking out free in months. He assumed that she didn't really care whether or not what lead to his crimes, but she needed something obviously. Maximillian had his reserves about why she was here still. Realizing that it didn't matter why she was here, just as it didn't matter to him if he did his crimes out of passion or just of accident.

Her last words while they seemed to be more meaningful, she still stared off into the distance. A thin, smug smile painted across her lips as she told him to humor her. Max realized that he honestly had nothing to lose by being helpful, yet he wanted her to acknowledge that he just wasn't 'some kid' who made a string of terrible decisions to land him in prison. He deserved to be here in a society built on Justice, but knowing that Justice usually isn't the fairest of mistresses. Staring her down, looking into her eyes, while she stared off, he prompted her, "I'll make it worth your while as long as you make it worth mine. You should take some notes I'm assuming...hate for you to leave empty handed."

Looking down at her legal pad of yellow tinted paper, he remembered that he wanted that pad and pen far more than she did. Leaning back into his chair, he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. "I guess I would begin back in high school. Your assumption that I'm just a frat-boy who took advantage of girls is correct...at least during those times." Tilting his head forward enough to look at Ms. Grant, he examined her smooth skin, tight features, and her youth; yet he knew there was something deeper than just her looks. She had other reasons to being here, she was very too relaxed and disconnected from this process if it was something that her thesis work was being attached too. He just couldn't put his finger on it. "I had a girlfriend since I was 13, until I was 16. Not one gal, but I managed to always keep someone around. We had sex regularly, like good teens. The last girlfriend of those three-years-time had dumped me, and I just couldn't pull a girlfriend the rest of high school. I flirted a lot, hooked up, but nothing stuck."

Sucking on his teeth he pondering his next words, "My school there was a lot of partying and under aged drinking. After about a dozen of these parties, the boys started to figure out who the more slutty girls were. I didn't want them, I wanted the good girls to give it up." Looking up at Ms. Grant he tried to see if he had her attention yet, "So I'd talk them up, we'd make-out but they weren't into much more than that. I got them drunker, hoping for more ideal outcomes...nothing. I started offering girls rides home who were too drunk, I'd pull off a dark side road, and have my way with them. Forcing it obviously." Savoring the thoughts of his humbled beginnings he inhaled and exhaled slowly, "That was that frat-boy shit. I just wanted pussy, if I needed to force it so be it. If they gave it up, I would have been just as happy." Looking up, he was clear that now had Ms. Grants attention, but whether or not she was buying his story was a different matter all together.

Tracing shapes on the stainless steel table, he drew a few circles and pentagrams before continuing on, "I sexually assaulted about a dozen girls in high school. Maybe ten if I'm being honestly. But I'm fairly certain double digits. Towards the end of those assault I was getting turned on by the force, not the sex anymore. Which I admit I found very disturbing. But I graduated without any issues, I would use rubbers, I wasn't trying to leave hard evidence or pregnancies. But I didn't take some virginities that way." A sinister grin came over his face as he thought of the few girls who had he abused in such a mean way.

"Coming into college, I had a few girlfriends my freshman year, but the sex wasn't doing for me. My first girlfriend was smoking hot, I fucked her hard without any issue. The next two, my performance in bed was lacking, I wasn't really interested." Looking up at the notepad, he ignored it and kept on with his story. "I was afraid of what my lack of sexual interest with my latter girlfriend would mean. I tried to hook up with other girls, but again no one I could really hold an erection with sadly."

Max's attention was now fully on Ms. Grant staring at her as he continued on, "After a while of trying not to have sex, I came to the conclusion that I needed the aggression in the act for me to maintain my attention. So I started going to parties, and getting girls to hook up with. Most would have been happy to fuck me, at least in my opinion. I was trying to get handsy with them at the parties, but they didn't like that." Pausing again how to express his rapes without too much detail, "Same idea, drive them home, or get them to come back to my place. Either their place or my place I would force myself on them. Not like we're making out on my bed, and I'm undressing her. Much more as soon as we got into the door, I'd start to undress them. Some of the girls were into that, but tried to brush it off. But I wanted to...I wanted to dominant them. After those first two/three rapes in college, I knew that was what I was hooked on...the force, the dominance...they're helplessness," his words had weight to them as if admitting it to himself was still an issue, at least to a complete stranger who would be using his words as potential evidence to her ideas.

Looking around for a glass of water that wasn't there, he needed a drink. He could feel his nerves and anxiety racing as he shared his more intimate and secretive things with this woman. After the words all left his mouth he was aware about the seriousness of the situation that he was explaining. Taking many deep breaths, he tried to calm his nerves, and his mind. They raced with the dozens of women's faces who he had attacked over the last decade. Inhaling and exhaling again, he commented, "All and all, about two to three dozen woman I've assaulted and or raped over the years. Maybe about a solid handful of them every spoke up. The last girl who went to the police was the one who got me in court. When they got me in court, all five women who had pressed charges had been present in my trial as witnesses. Hence the three counts of violent rape, and the sexual assaults." Taping his fingers on the table he continued, "Somehow after I was convicted, other girls started coming forward making claims of assault. The time from the alleged assault was so long ago, it was impossible to prove yet they keeping tacking them on my record--so when the Director told you a dozen. They're all true, and accounted for by me. But a lack of evidence they just sit on my record, no additional time, but I've been labeled as a sexual predator."

Max now mirrored Ms. Grant's original demeanor, he stared distantly into the table, with the notepad visible only out of the corner of his eye. His legs shook to keep him occupied as the silence filled the room yet again.

 

[Ethoxyethane]

Well, look at that there: Jillian noticed his quiet screams for attention, the eye contact landing back at her notepad and the input to make it worth his while. She sat there grinning, pen loose in hand as the ball-tip tauntingly rested against the paper, and thought what a funny fellow he was to have just last week spit at her and today so eager to prove the world that she was wrong.

To encourage him, she sloppily wrote: Maximilian Ingle: proves Jillian wrong. Before the pen could relax in her slender digits, hastily she carroted in attempts to before the word 'proves' and crossed out the 's' in proves. It now read: Maximilian Ingle: ^ attempts to proves Jillian wrong.

He began to speak. The more he spoke, the more Jillian listened, senses undivided.

Silence engulfed the volume of the grey room.

Did this poor excuse of a second rate criminal really expect her to believe such a painfully obvious embellished story? What a laugh! She had to practically hold air in her lungs to keep from snickering. Along with that, smart mouthed comments regarding the confirmation of her knowledge that he was indeed a frat boy who took advantage of the poor drunk women, and his sexual performance... or lack there of.

She could sense in her bones that this story pertained a sinister quality. ...of course, the little dork had all this time to craft something together, so be it from imagination, a bit of truth, or another criminal's story. Or even more likely a bit of each to cultivate this story. Sure, he raped, but Jillian was not buying this man cuffed in a orange jump suit to a chair bolted to the floor was a real rapist - murderer.

In the intervals of silence following his story she had ran it through her mind a thousands time over. A thousand times she not believed it fully. The more she analyzed his story the less she believed it. His voice was not smooth. His voice was that of thinking, thinking of methods to articulate something rehearsed. Would a real criminal even reveal such detail and personal things anyway? The other criminals she met with, they did not really have any story. It made his story all the more difficult to believe. Maybe it was her fault for voicing her strong desires of a criminal that drove him to want to play the part she seeked, to employ the false layers to his story.

Jillian Grant did not purchase his story for accuracy. She purchased it for good humor, and mostly selfish personal reasons. She looked down darkly to the floor, legs randomly shifted from left to right. Her stretched as she breathed in a lung full of clarity from the air. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the piece of chipped tile: it told her exactly the same thing it meant the first time she saw it, that a real criminal was missing in here. It was sign. What he spoke hung around them in the room.

The story appealed to her, and she played out the story briefly as though it were a Law and Order SVU episode. Too often she got off on that TV show. Her heart was slow heavy hammer blows. She fancied the idea of this story being very real, even if not to the real rapist extent she had standardized in her head. If it were real Jillian would have focused her thesis and attention around him. Sadly, his story was not real. Aside from the thesis, she herself wanted to get acquainted with a real rapist-murderer. On the contrary, Jillian did not have a rape fantasy. In fact, the thought that she would get raped was completely unsettling- she loathed the thought, no arousal whatsoever. But it was more the thrill that if she imagined another get raped, a part of the victim killed a bit ...that something got taken out of their life and made somewhat less valuable …that really got her wet. That was still not enough. She desired more intensity of the word kill rather than the figurative context. It was moments like these that reminded her of Damien, an ex boyfriend. He had no place in her thoughts and discarded that train of thought which boarded to All-Sorts-Of-Fucked-Up-Ville.

"Oh, I think I get it!" Exclaimed Jillian, breaking the silence, clear as day she did not believe his story entirely. The palm of her hand smacked her smooth forehead. She thought herself a silly girl for not coming to this conclusion earlier. Her lips broke into a small and comfortable and attractive smile. "You think you actually have some sort of a chance with me romantically. Don't you? Ha. That's cute. Really. You think just because you're not dangerous or a real criminal like the other inmates I've interviewed that I might consider you if you impress with this story. Well, let me tell you something Mr Ingle. It is not your fortune to be in my interests, nor even my favorite criminal. In fact, I think you are dead last out of the bunch. I use the words 'I think' kindly because you obviously went to great lengths to nurture that story of yours and your efforts are noticed. And you did humor me. I'll give you that much and hm, if your next story is as entertaining maybe, just maybe, we might be in the same chairs, face to face again, in my next round of interviews."

Shrugging she added idly, "Perhaps next time a story of an accidental death that contributed to your jail time." The pen rhythmically tapped on the yellow pad.

He would not be given what he wanted, the thing he held dear and most: attention to his ego, through means of documenting his story. She would use this against him and she knew it would only fuel his desires to prove Jillian wrong, provide her with additional information and amusement. Although Jillian would not tell him this, she listened to and would remember every. single. word.