Damon plucked the lily from the breast pocket of his denim jacket and inspected it. In the moonlight, it glowed a pale pink. It was beautiful.
He turned his gaze to the girl lying before him. In the moonlight, her panties—at least, the part he could see under her nightshirt—glowed a pale pink, too. According to the college ID card he’d found in her purse, her name was Lillian.
Just like he’d picked the lily in his hand, he’d picked this girl. He’d awakened that morning with an aching urge to do a photo shoot. So he went down to the local community college, found an appealing subject, and followed her home.
Now he stood in her bedroom. The digital clock on Lillian’s bedside table read 12:09. He paused--was there somebody else in the house? He listened for a moment and, hearing nothing, moved to the girl’s desk to retrieve her snake light.
Time to get to work.
Taking special care not to touch her toes, Damon peeled Lillian’s socks away, interfering with her body as little as possible. This was the pose she had assumed when she’d laid down for bed; this was natural. Posing her would be unnatural; it would alter Lillian’s chosen manner of presenting herself. That would just be pretentious. Women were only beautiful—in the artistic sense—while in their natural states.
He plugged the light into the nearest outlet and aimed the snake light at her feet.
Her soles were exquisite. Lillian lay on her belly, leaving her feet upturned, causing her arches to crease like wilted flower petals. Damon set the lily beside them for comparison. Yes, he had chosen a perfect subject. Her feet were pale and pink, just like the lily. In time they would look more like a white lily, but for now they were the perfect color.
Damon set the lily atop her soles—inserting the stem between her insteps—and snapped a picture. Prior to plucking the lily from between her feet, he leaned down and inhaled deeply. Lillian had taken a shower before bed, and the scent of clean feminine skin mixed well with the flower’s aroma. His eyes wandered upward.
Lillian’s legs, tragically, were too pale to serve Damon’s purposes. Maybe later in the summer Lillian would have gone out tanning, but for now they were still as pale as fresh-fallen snow. He was only interested in Lillian’s pink parts. Damon’s mother had loved pink lilies as much as she loved him, and had shared that love (as well as many other things) with him when she was still alive.
Damon’s eyes fell to Lillian’s panties. Sure, they were pink, but clothing didn’t count. Her vagina would be the right color, though. He paused, wondering if he should snip away her undergarments. No—he would have to pull her legs apart, and that would be interfering with her position. Only one girl—Ashley—had fallen asleep with her legs splayed, creating some of Damon’s best photographs. Damon had snipped away her panties and parted her loins with his thumb and forefinger (which was interfering, but inspiration trumps regulation). Feeling adventurous, he’d slipped the stem of that night’s lily into her vagina, and created what Damon considered to be the ‘Holy Grail’ of photographs.
Damon adjusted himself. Thinking about Ashley’s vagina had given him an erection. He would need to masturbate later.
Lillian had been gracious with her hands. Although one was tucked under the pillow, the other lay beside her bum, her palm and fingers a soft shade of magenta. He moved the light accordingly and placed the lily in her hand, feeding the stem between her middle- and ring finger. That was the way his mother had held flowers; never by the stem, but cradled carefully in the palm. He snapped two pictures.
Retrieving the lily and giving it a quick sniff, he moved to Lillian’s face.
He longed to stroke her hair, but refrained. That would be the worst type of interference. Every strand, every follicle needed to remain in place. Disturbing this delicate equilibrium would be a crime—a sin perhaps.
He set the lily by Lillian’s cheek and aimed the light. Her feet and palms were nice, but her cheek bore the strongest resemblance to the petals. He positioned the flower carefully, taking special care to avoid disturbing a stray strand of hair that had fallen across her face, and snapped a picture.
Breathing heavily, Damon collected the flower and admired Lillian. Raping her crossed his mind, but he’d only made that mistake once, during his second photo shoot with a thirteen-year-old named Sarah two decades earlier. He’d felt bad about it, of course. His mother had always told him to “think with the head on your shoulders, and not the one between your legs” and in this case, he’d failed. The woman was supposed to think about the one between Damon’s legs on her own, as she had demonstrated many times.
As Damon inspected Lillian’s face, he noticed something. The tissue surrounding her head was pink and the blood had blossomed across the pillow—in the shape of a flower? Inspiration took hold and he drew Lillian’s head up by a wad of silken blond hair.
Yes—this was perfect. Even after all these years, he was discovering new things. The powder-charred hole in the pillow was in the dead center of the petal-like blooms of blood, the tissue giving it a pinkish hue. He placed the stem of the lily in the hole and snapped a few pictures with his free hand.
Letting Lillian’s head slump back down, Damon flipped off the light. His face was flushed, he was sweating, and his penis ached. He could feel little droplets of warm fluid spreading on the front of his boxers.
Still, he had to return to the other room before leaving for the night to see if Lillian’s mother’s pillow looked the same.