Locsmiths Have All the Fun

I met Louise in my freshman year of college. She was the prettiest girl I had ever met, but she was special in another way. Unlike some pretty girls, who were stuck up, so to speak, Louise was charming and sweet. We dated for three months, but sexually I never got anywhere with her.

We enjoyed some kissing and a little petting, but Louise was not really into it. She was uptight about sex or even anything closely related to sex. I was pretty sure she was a virgin, even if she once confessed to me that she had been 'a little wild' in high school. We still dated, nevertheless, because I adored her, and I'm a patient guy.

The way I figured it, almost all women have children, right? That means at some point they have sex. You just have to wait until they're ready. And I simply loved being around Louise. She made me feel good, and we had wonderful conversations about almost anything, as long as it was not sex. We'd have sex, I felt sure, when Louise was ready. Lord knows I was already ready!

As it turned out, however, Louise was more than ready for sex. She just was not ready for sex with me. She had not been a virgin. When I hunted down a guy who went to the same high school as she did, he told me that rumors about her sexual promiscuity were rampant, all about the school. She had slept with at least three different guys that he knew of. She was considered to be a slut. I knew, however, it's not hard to achieve slut status in high school. College was a whole different ball game.

Unlike with me, Louise certainly was ready for sex with one of my friends, Tom, and she fucked her brains out with him right after she dumped me. I began to wonder what kind of game she had been playing at with me? I finally concluded that she did not want to develop a reputation in college like the one she 'enjoyed' in high school. I did not pressure her, and I was a safe choice, at least until she "got her sea legs," and became bored with me.

Louise hurt me when she dumped me for Tom, but I was only 18, and I knew I would get over it as time passed. I dated other girls, found one who was willing, at least a few times, and I eventually got over Louise. Louise later dumped Tom, moving on to Mike, one of Tom's friends. She shacked up with him for a while, and eventually she dumped him too, as she found someone even better, at least for her taste and what she wanted from a man. I lost track of her. I had bigger fish to fry, such as staying in school. I was out of money.

One thing about Louise. Every man in her sequence of lovers was financially richer than the one before. I never stood a chance with her. I came from a poor family.

Second semester of my freshman year my parents were involved in a bad car accident, and while their insurance paid around 70% of their costs, the remaining 30% was huge, or at least it was for them. Even before the accident, things were always financially fairly tight around the end of the month. My Dad was working class, with a union job at Essex Wire, and my mother cleaned other people's homes.

My parents were exemplars of what is known as "the working poor." My parents had a steady income before the accident, and they could even help me a bit with my large college expenses, along with my massive loans, but they had no margin of error. Workmen's compensation did not apply for car accidents, and with no income coming in from my father's job (since he had to take sick leave), my parents were, to use the technical phrase, 'shit out of luck.'

So, at the age of 19, I gave up trying to get girls into bed in between study time and classes, and instead I went to work to support myself and to help my parents. I was good with my hands, and with the help of a friend of my father, I quickly found work as a trainee to become an electrician. Being a trainee did not pay, so I worked on the side as a locksmith, a skill I learned quickly and easily. I even became quite skilled at it.

Five years later I had relocated, from Southern Missouri to Chicago, and I had my own locksmith shop. I had to compete with the 1-800 number companies, but there were always people around who (correctly, in my opinion) did not trust the 1-800s of the world, and preferred to hire a local guy, someone with a local office, who would be there if they had a complaint, or needed anything else. These people wanted someone they could trust, not some anonymous 1-800 guy.

I had 5 star reviews on all of the web sites, except for one, which gave me a 4.9. I was bonded. I was the safe choice and also, if I do say so myself, the competent choice for a locksmith. I had a much smaller web presence than the 1-800s, to be sure, but I was also a better locksmith than was typical of their guys. I was, in fact, a damn good locksmith.

My work was pretty routine, but there was some variety from time to time. People got into all sorts of jams that might surprise a person. Nothing, however, surprises me anymore. I liked the occasional challenges of bizarre situations.

There was the jewelry store guy who was getting a little bit old, and who for the life of him could not remember the combination to his safe. It was a huge safe, 6 feet high, with a solid steel door, and a complicated locking system, involving both a combination and two keys. The safe was an antique, and I considered it to be a work of art. You turned a key, and then you had 5 minutes to use the combination, and then you turned another key.

That job was really tricky, and I was thinking about how to go about it when my girlfriend Cleo at the time said, "I'd be surprised if the old fool didn't make a note of the combination somewhere. Maybe he forgot that he did that, too."

I pooh-poohed her idea of course, since it was inconceivable to me that she could be right about something within my area of expertise, but then I figured, what the hell? I put myself in the mind of the old coot. Where would he think a thief would never look? He was the kind of guy who would hide the rent money in the freezer.

Using that kind of logic, it seemed obvious to me, and I found the combination at the first hiding place I checked. I took out the drawers to his desk and sure enough, there was the combination, scrawled on the back panel of one of the drawers. I was done, with the safe wide open, in ten minutes, but I pretended it took the entire day. I wrote down the combination for the old coot, and I suggested he hide it somewhere. I did not tell him that he had already done that!

The guy thought I was a genius, and he told everyone he knew. I took my girlfriend Cleo out for a fancy meal, and I thanked her profusely. She then added a cherry on top, by sexily seducing me that night. It's really hard for her to get me into bed. With her body and her love of sex, all she has to do is say hello. Coming out of the bathroom stark naked is seduction overkill, but it works every single time. Cleo was one hell of a girlfriend.

Another time a man (Dr. Seth Gouverne) had lost his trousseau of keys to one of those TSA scanner machines at the airport, when it fell off the moving belt into the unknown depths of the machine. TSA did nothing to help him, other than to give him the web site for TSA lost and found. His wrist was handcuffed to his attaché case. The attaché case itself was locked, too. He called me when he got to Chicago. He needed to hand off the attaché case, and then get on another flight.

I did not ask what secrets he was carrying. I figured they were business secrets. He told me they were government secrets. Okay, whatever, I thought. He was in a hurry, too, because he had a connecting flight he did not want to miss, and he had to hand off the attaché case to another guy, right there at O'Hare, in the secure zone, of course. I had to negotiate to get into the secure zone, both without a boarding pass and with my box of tools. Fortunately, Dr. Gouverne had raised such a stink that the TSA was thrilled to see me when I got there and it was easy to get into the secure zone.

I got the handcuffs open within 10 minutes, and the attaché case open in two minutes. I had to go out to O'Hare airport to do the job, so I charged a hefty premium for that. He told me that I gave him a bargain. I did not know if he were rich, or if it was just that he was using other people's money, or that he was from New York, where things are more expensive. But it was nice to see someone so grateful.

I got a significant number of calls from people locked out of their apartments, or their homes, the latter often with burglar alarms to deal with, too. Being an electrician, too, helped in those cases. I had all the tools of a first-rate burglar, and if I had wanted to, I could have broken into anyone's home and robbed them blind, and not even have left a trace. I did not want to do that.

And lest we forget, so many people lock themselves out of their cars that it's not funny! People locking themselves out of their cars was my bread and butter, if you will. One time a young woman, sexy as all get-go, locked herself out of her car in the supermarket's parking lot. It was winter, too, and when I got there she was shivering. She was not wearing a bra, and her nipples were doing a perfect imitation of lead round nose bullets.

I told her to wait in my warm truck, and I opened her car in around two minutes, using the special tools I have for such occasions. I returned to the truck and gave her the keys, which she had left in the ignition. She confessed she had no cash, and I don't take credit cards. I also don't simply give them a bill for opening up locked cars; in those cases, it's cash on the barrel-head, I'm afraid. I drove her to an ATM, and her balance was negative. I felt sorry for her; she was poor white trash, just like me. She was struggling to survive.

We had some awkward moments. I decided I was prepared to let it go. It's bad business to do something like that, but it feels good to be human occasionally, too. You win some and you lose some, I thought to myself, philosophically. This poor girl was winning nothing at all. Just before I was about to tell her it was free this time, she instead proposed paying me with sex.

I could not believe it. I looked at her. She was about the sexiest girl I had met in quite a while. She was one of those girls who if you were to look her in the eye, you would be lost. It was as if she could cast a spell of lust over a man just by looking at him. She certainly could do that to me, and she did, too. "Seriously?" I said. She nodded, blushing, and looking at the floor.

"Maybe a blowjob? Would that settle the debt? I'm not that good at them, but I'll try? Or, we could fuck if you want? I'm told I'm really good in bed," she said, blushing and looking at the floorboards of the car as she spoke. I did not know if she was embarrassed because she was proposing sex, or embarrassed because she was bragging about her ability to please a man. I actually suspected it was the latter. Her nipples got hard again as she spoke. I felt her nipples alone were sending a message, and I was receiving it, loud and clear.

She seemed to be a country girl, and she had a slight twang in her accent. I grew up with girls like her. Almost half the girls in my 8th grade class got pregnant. I'm not kidding. Girls learn early in the rural countryside, especially in the poor white trash parts of the country, that there are two currencies in the US: the American dollar, and sexual favors.

She was true to her word too. As I was quickly to learn, her blowjob skills were pathetic, but she was dynamite in the sack. I could not get enough of her. Maybe you know how it is? You kiss a girl, and instead of enjoying the kiss and getting satisfaction, you need another kiss. Then you need another, and another, and another, and it's not because they're not great kisses, and you're not satisfied. No, in fact they're wonderful kisses. The kisses are sexy and satisfying. It just seems to be that the more you get, the more you want, and the more you need. It's kind of like eating really good chocolate. You just can't get enough.

It was even more intense when it came to the sexual act. Before I knew this girl, whose name was Cleo, I was always spent after sex. After I would explode inside a woman, I would be happy and satisfied, even if the woman needed more. With Cleo, in contrast, not only did she want more, more, and more, but I would match her, desire for desire. Even though I was 24 and Cleo was 19 at the time, I was popping Viagra just to keep up with this insatiable sexpot.

Cleo lived with me for about six months, before we had a big fight and she left. I was sorry to see her go. I liked her a lot, but we were just not a good match. She still locks herself out of her car on occasion, and I still run to her damsel in distress calls, and of course there is never any charge for Cleo, or any my not-so-numerous past lovers, unless you count her always proposing payment by nostalgia sex.

I still love her, and I'm happy to help. I think she might still love me, too. We were just incompatible when we lived together. Sometimes I wonder if she locked herself out of her car on purpose, as a way of seducing me into some more nostalgia sex. By the way, Cleo's improving, slowly, with her blowjobs.

All this strangeness did not completely prepare me for what I call "The Great Case of the Belt." I like to name my memorable cases, as an homage to the Sherlock Holmes stories I devoured as a young boy and an adolescent. Every week I'd go to the library and take "The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes," off the shelf, and I would read it, cover to cover.

The librarian tried to convince me to learn to borrow books, but she did not understand my home life. Borrowing books was not an option in my case. I was happy to read them in the library. It had nicer chairs, and better lighting, than we had at my home. Most of all, nobody ridiculed me for reading when I was in the library.

As for the Great Case of the Belt, I got the call around 10pm, and it was urgent. A fancy suburb of Chicago is Winnetka, Illinois. There are houses there that are so big a man can get lost in them. The furnishings are opulent, and sometimes the walls are decorated with original paintings that could have been prominently displayed in the Art Institute Museum. It was my first call for a Winnetka address, and I had no idea what to expect. Rich people, especially very rich people, are just not like you and me.

When I got there the butler (yes, the butler!) let me into the house. He explained that the man of the house had left for a trip in his private plane, and the "lady of the house" had accidentally locked the door to the master bedroom, with her inside it. The man had forgotten his keys in his hotel room in Bermuda, and he was not about to return for them. They were being sent by overnight messenger to him, but he needed things unlocked now.

The lady of the house was preparing for his return. She had accidentally locked herself inside her bedroom, where there were some "other issues involving locks", and although he did not know precisely what the 'other issues' were, he did know that the other issues too needed a locksmith.

The man of the house had told the butler to call me, because he was a friend of Dr. Gouverne, and he had heard from Dr. Gouverne that I was reliable and competent. Well, okay! I thought.

The butler said discretion was an issue, and I assured him he had no trouble with me on that score. I had learned long ago not to bore people with tales of what I - and only I, often enough -

thought were my more interesting cases. The butler showed me to the locked door of the master bedroom, and then he disappeared to do whatever butlers do to pass the time of day. Before he left, he said the master of the house wanted ALL of the locks opened. He stressed the word 'all.' That was strange, I thought, but really nothing ever phased me, anymore. I had already seen, I thought, way too much.

To every rule, there is an exception. This case threw me for a loop, you might say. Using my tools, it took me somewhere between 10 and 15 seconds to crack the lock to the door of the master bedroom, and I strode into the room confidently, closing and locking the door behind me. The door locked and unlocked from the inside, so the lady of the house could easily have exited the bedroom, but for one thing. She was, shall we say, all tied up.

There on the bed was a gorgeous woman. I knew exactly just how gorgeous she was, since she was stark naked. When she became aware of my presence, she blushed furiously.

I knew about bondage and discipline. I had even watched a porn video or two (okay, maybe three), where bondage was involved. But I had never seen a woman in the flesh, stark naked, bound spread eagle on a bed, and with a ball gag on, right in front of me. Releasing bondage constraints typically does not require a locksmith, but in this case handcuffs were involved. I quickly noticed a locked chastity belt, too. Oh. Now I get it.

The hand cuffs were standard sexual play handcuffs, a lot easier to crack than police issue handcuffs. Anyway, I can open any handcuff, anywhere, if I am equipped with my bag of tools. The lock on the chastity belt was just a simple padlock, and I had it open in a couple of minutes. I went to the woman to ask if she was okay, and I stopped dead in my tracks, although I tried not to show even a hint of recognition. It was Louise. It was my Louise, from our freshman year of college. I did not want to get too close to her face, lest she recognize me, but I could see enough of her face to be close to certain that it was her.

When Louise saw me, she could not speak due to the ball gag, but her eyes got wide and she blushed and began to cry a little bit. I could not tell if it were simply embarrassment and shame, or if it was due to her recognizing me, or both? Neither of us would be expecting to see the other, and our time together was far away in a different state, six years earlier. Six years is a long time, at our ages. I stayed at a distance and at an angle where she could not see my face. She had limited head movement, and therefore limited vision, due to the bondage constraints.

Normally I am as nice a guy as you would ever meet. My former girlfriend Cleo described me as "thoughtful and empathetic." But here was a woman who destroyed me when I was 18, and seeing her splayed out, naked in front of me, brought all those emotions back to the front burner of my brain. I had thought they were either gone, or were dead and buried. Now that I was in a room with her, however, the hurt felt as fresh as if everything had happened only yesterday.

Louise had humiliated me, and left me for Tom. Tom had teased me about it mercilessly and incessantly, telling me how good she was in bed, and tormenting me with his descriptions of how she moaned when they fucked. He also described how they fucked, how she gasped when he entered her, how her pelvis rose to meet his thrusts, how wet she got and how she spread her legs for him as if she were doing the splits. To hear Tom tell it, her legs spread out perpendicular to her body, in opposite directions, leaving her gaping pussy in the middle as a welcoming target for his cock.

She would even talk dirty when they fucked, something Tom loved, and I was sure I would have loved it too, had a woman ever done that for me. I was so starved for affection from Louise, that I just stood there, listening, imagining Louise was underneath me, squirming in pleasure, as Tom tormented me with what I now call 'sexual sadism.' In return, I was being a 'sexual masochist,' and trust me, that is not a healthy, nor a particularly pleasant, way to be.

Louise would have nothing to do with me. I was poor white trash, known in some circles by the acronym PWT. So was she, but she did not see herself that way, and she was determined to escape our social heritage and never look back. She could not have even the illusion of escape if she were with me, if she were my woman.