On a Slippery Slope

It has been six weeks since I broke up with my boyfriend. I don't miss him but I miss the sex. Not his brand of sex, just sex in general. I have several excellent toys and I put them to good use, but I need something more than simple mechanical stimulation. I want excitement and a human cock inside me.

One of the reasons I ditched him was his refusal to experiment. I love to try new things, to act out fantasies, to talk dirty during sex. He was too much of a prude. He was competent enough at simple fucking, but beyond that he was pretty boring.

I am horny enough to begin looking around for a suitable partner. There is the computer subcontractor guy at work who has been showing some interest in me for the past couple of weeks. He's cute, but I've always been leery of dating people from work. I haven't ruled him out completely because his company services several businesses in our complex and I only see him once or twice each week.

Renewing my lapsed gym membership provides another opportunity, but that has its limitations too. About half the guys in the gym are raging narcissists, focused solely on their own bodies. Another ten percent are gay, and a lot of what's left over is comprised of married guys on the make. Still, I keep my eyes open.

A couple of weeks go by without much happening one way or another. I follow my usual routine; work, an hour at the gym, dinner in my apartment by myself, a little TV, and maybe a workout with one of my vibrators if I feel the urge. On weekends, my best friend Angie and I get together when she is between boyfriends. Other than my friendship with her, I am in a rut.

Finally, something happens that captures my imagination. I stumble onto a website that has a section where people can post erotic stories for anyone to read. I have no intention of writing stories, but I enjoy reading the work of others, some of which is very well done.

I have been fascinated by mild bondage since I first began having sex, often fantasizing about a mysterious man restraining me in some creative way and then fucking me senseless. It took a long time for me to work up the courage to suggest such a thing to my boyfriend, but I eventually took the leap. Dropping hints didn't work, so I finally just had to come out and ask him to tie me to the bed and fuck me. He was horrified.

"What kind of pervert are you?" he yelled.

I felt my face flush with embarrassment, shame, and anger. My voice was shaking when I was finally able to respond.

"As of this instant, I'm a single pervert. Get the fuck out of my house. Get out of my life. And stay out!" That was the end of him.

Before long, I am spending the majority of my free time on the site, prowling around in the category that caters to bondage. I quickly discover I have no interest in the 'master, slave, and sir' scenarios. I'm not into pain, so nothing is ever going to get clipped to my nipples. Bullwhips are out of the question and I am not about to allow anyone to stuff a gag in my mouth. I am much more attracted to the simple 'blindfold, restrain, and fuck' genre. I also find that I have an interest in fucking machines if bondage is also involved. There are hundreds of such stories on the site and I print copies of my favorites to read later in bed with my vibrators. It's not a bad compromise until I can find a new boyfriend who won't mind a little adventure.

And then one night after dinner my laptop crashes while I am in the middle of a particularly arousing story on the site. I'm no computer whiz by any stretch of the imagination, and I'm probably the last woman on the planet under the age of thirty-five who doesn't own a smart phone or a tablet. I can't access the site from my computer at work, so I need to get mine fixed, and soon. It is my only link to the site that is rapidly becoming an addiction.

It is a little after seven when the damned thing dies. I know the computer store where I bought the laptop stays open until nine and they have a technical group that does repairs. I snatch up the machine, grab my purse, and bolt out the door.

On the way over, I have an anxious moment or two thinking about what might be on my computer that could prove embarrassing or pose a security risk if the tech guys start poking around where they aren't welcome. I save all the stories I copy from the website but keep them in a folder marked 'Recipes.' I keep no financial records on the drive. I am sloppy about clearing my browsing history, but decide the odds are pretty slim that anyone will recognize the address of that site among the hundreds I've visited. I decide to worry about something else; like how long I will be without my computer.

There is no one at the tech counter when I arrive. After waiting for what seems like an eternity, a door opens and the computer guy from work walks into the area carrying a desktop console.

"Be with you in a minute," he says, without so much as a glance in my direction.

"No rush," I lie.

Finally he finishes what he is doing and looks over at me.

"Carla? Hi, how are you doing?"

"Well, what do you know? Brian Devlin. Moonlighting?"

"Yep. I have expensive habits to support. What can I do for you?"

"My laptop has given up the ghost. Can you fix it tonight," I ask, hoping I don't sound too desperate.

"I doubt it. I can run a quick diagnostic check but you'll probably have to leave it for a day or two."

"Two days?" Shit.

"Let's fire it up and see if it's something simple."

It isn't something simple.

"I'm sorry," he says, "but your operating system is not responding."

"Tell me about it," I moan.

"Look," he says. "I'll work on it until closing time. Maybe I can tell you more at work tomorrow. I have to finish up some items in your offices in the morning, so I'll come see you."

"Thanks Brian. I appreciate your help. See you tomorrow," I say, hoping I don't look as dejected as I feel.

"Goodnight Carla. Hopefully it won't be too serious."

****

Brian is waiting for me when I stop by the lunchroom for coffee before heading to my office.

"Bad news, I'm afraid. Your drive is shot. It has to be replaced."

"Okay, so what's a new drive going to cost me?"

"Not much, and we can probably recover some of your files for you. If you'll authorize the repair, it should be ready by closing time tonight. If I can't get to it, one of the other two techs will take care of it."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you," I exclaim, thinking I will still have time later tonight to see what new bondage stories I might have missed while my laptop was off line. "I'll be there before closing time."

I go a little early and am pleased to find that the repair is complete. Brian tells me he recovered most of my files and everything is working fine. I pay a modest sum for everything and head home.

A month goes by with no major breaks in my routine. I spend a lot of time browsing the bondage section of the site, learning quite a bit about various ways to restrain a woman and provide her and her partner with a lot of pleasure. I keep fantasizing about someone doing that stuff to me.

A couple more weeks go by and then things begin to change. I stop to pick up groceries on the way home from the gym one evening. When I arrive at my apartment, I extract the mail from my box in the hallway and stuff it into one of the grocery bags. Pinning the two bags against the wall with one arm and my hip, I manage to get the door open without dropping everything.

Placing the bags on my dining table, I toss the mail onto the counter by the stove and put the groceries away. After taking a quick shower to remove the workout residue, I forget about the mail until dinnertime. Frozen Pizza. Yum yum.

While the microwave is working its magic, I turn to the mail. Half is junk that goes immediately into the trash. The bills I set aside until the weekend. Friday is payday. One letter remains.

There is no return address but the postmark is local. My name and address are hand-printed in block letters on the front. The envelope is made of high quality buff-colored paper. A notecard of equally high quality is inside. Puzzled, I pull it free. A single sentence, hand printed in capital letters, is centered in the card. 'I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT' it reads.

I examine the other side of the card. Nothing. And there is nothing else inside the envelope.

Frowning, I toss the whole business into the trash alongside the junk mail and the pizza box. Someone's idea of a joke, I guess. Thinking better of it, I retrieve the card and toss it into a little basket I use to store bits of paper, business cards, and what have you. It might be important someday.

I spend a half hour skimming through the older bondage stories on the site, searching for the type I find appealing. I see what looks like a perfect story that was posted years earlier. I save a copy in my 'Recipe' folder and send the file to the printer for use later that night with one of my vibrators, probably the large phallic one that was supposedly molded from a famous porn star's cock and balls.

Two days later I receive a second envelope in the mail; same local postmark, same high quality paper, no return address. 'I CAN GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT' is printed on the card inside. Now I am creeped out and pissed off at the same time. Who is this asshole and what makes him, or maybe her, think they have a clue about what I want? I toss the card into the little basket with the other one and throw the envelope out with the day's collection of junk mail.

A week goes by and I am still thinking the whole thing is some sort of bad joke. There is nothing more in the mail. Perhaps the perpetrator has grown tired of the game.

I work late on Friday and miss happy hour with the crowd from work. Feeling out of sorts, I pick up some deli fare for dinner and head home. My mailbox is crammed full of junk as usual. As I pull it free, a single legal-sized envelope falls to the floor of the hallway, face down. I pick it up and flip it over. My name and address are printed exactly the same as the earlier letters but this envelope is clearly thicker.

I step inside my entryway and lock the door. Dropping all the mail on my end table except the letter, I rip it open. Several folded sheets of paper are inside. I nearly faint when I realize I am holding a copy of the last story I printed from the website. I start to hyperventilate and lower my body into a chair to keep my knees from buckling.

This changes everything. Someone has access to my laptop. I am being hacked from outside or someone from the store did something to my computer that allows them to spy on my on-line activities. Or maybe someone is able to gain entrance to my apartment while I am at work and prowl around inside the machine. Brian Devlin and his two colleagues are the most likely candidates in the first case, while almost anyone could be involved if it were the other and they have access to a key.

I take a few deep breaths to calm down. Suddenly feeling very vulnerable, I run around my apartment pulling blinds and shutting curtains. I feel a little better when everything is closed up so I mix myself a martini and sit down to collect my thoughts.

The only people who have a key to my apartment are my parents, Angie, and the building superintendent. I rule them all out; my parents for obvious reasons and Angie would never do such a thing. I have lived here for five years and Mr. Johnson, the building super, is a friend. He is sixty-eight years old and a retired family law judge. There is no way he can be involved in something like this, so I discard the idea that my intruder came in through the front door. But just to be safe, I'll ask Mr. Johnson to re-key my lock in the morning.

That leaves an outside job by some hacker or an inside job by one of the guys in the computer shop. I decide to take a closer look at Brian Devlin as a logical first step. I'm not sure how to approach him but I feel better having some sort of starting point.

As a last resort, I'll turn the whole mess over to the police. My older brother Tim is the Chief Deputy in the county, so I know I will get all the police cooperation I need. Too much, probably. I'll have to give up my laptop as evidence and I'm not all that happy with the idea of them digging around through my files, particularly my brother.

The martini calms my nerves so I sit down to eat dinner and call up my file of stories. I decide to cull through them and erase all but the very few that most closely follow my bondage fantasies. I have them all in printed form and can always access them again through the site, so it is no big loss. I end up retaining only three on my computer, the one I just received in the mail and two more that feature scenarios I find particularly arousing.

A second martini makes me sleepy so I call it a night, and then spend most of the weekend cleaning my apartment and reading stories on the site until time for Sunday dinner at my parent's house. My brother is there with his wife and we all have a pleasant time. I keep my troubles to myself.

Brian is nowhere to be found when I arrive at work on Monday morning, so I reach under my desk and yank a couple of cables loose from my desktop computer and then call for computer support.

Twenty minutes later Brian arrives. Three minutes after that the problem is fixed.

"The janitor must have caught them with his broom or something," I offer. "Thanks for fixing it."

"No problem, that's what they pay me for," he responds.

"Care for a cup of coffee?" I ask.

"Sure. I don't have any trouble calls at the moment and I don't start my next assignment until ten."

Brian follows me to the lunchroom and we each grab a cup.

"How's the laptop holding up?" he asks as we sit down.

"Everything seems to be fine," I respond. I have no idea how to lead him into a discussion about computer hacking, so I engage him in regular getting-to-know-you conversation. We talk for twenty minutes and I get absolutely no hint that he is anything other than what he seems to be. He comes across as a regular guy. I find out he is in the National Guard, that he has a library card, that he likes Mexican food, movies and motorcycles, and he drives a Camaro. Not much help.

His phone chirps, ending our break. "Trouble call," he says. "Gotta go. It's been nice talking to you, Carla. Thanks for the coffee."

My workday turns out to be so busy that I almost forget about my stalker, or whatever he is. I arrive home a little after six and retrieve my mail, fully expecting another surprise but finding nothing unusual.

Tuesday's mail also has nothing of interest. Ditto for Wednesday. That's when I realize that I am disappointed. Obviously I need to get a life.

Thursday's mail brings everything back into sharp focus. 'I WILL GIVE YOU EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT' is printed on the card.

On Friday I receive a copy of the second story I had retained in my computer file and I am becoming intrigued. Who is this guy?

Saturday's mail contains a copy of the third story and I am suddenly beside myself with curiosity, and perhaps a little something else.

Sunday is a drag. No mail delivery. Dinner with my family is the only thing that keeps me from going insane. Angie is there. Angie spends almost as much time with my parents as I do. Not only do we work together, but we've been best friends since the seventh grade.

Angela Molinari is the youngest of seven children and the only girl. Her parents were killed in an accident the year before we met. She was raised by her oldest brother, now a local lawyer, with a lot of help from my folks. Her two youngest brothers became catholic priests, but soon defected to the Episcopalian church when they realized they like pussy too much. Both are now married and have a couple of kids. The three middle brothers are non-violent petty criminals. Tim says the cops generally leave them alone because the sheriff and his deputies enjoy Cuban cigars, untaxed booze, and the occasional bet on sporting events, all of which are frowned upon by the state in which we live.

I think Monday will never arrive, but it finally comes through for me. Now all I have to do is get through the day so I can check my mailbox.

Another small envelope this time. The only thing written on the card is a phone number. I sit staring at the card for an eternity and then make a decision. Grabbing my purse, I head out the door to buy a throwaway phone. There is no way I'll call that number from my own cell phone.

Unable to wait until I get home, I dial the number from my car and get a recording.

"It is time for us to take the next step," a voice says. It has a slight mechanical note to it, like maybe a synthesizer or something is being used to disguise my stalker's voice. "In tomorrow's mail you will receive explicit instructions. Follow them to the letter."

And then the call ends. I can't believe what I just heard so I redial the number. After twenty rings I give up and terminate the call. A second try thirty minutes later produces the same result.

Now I am a complete wreck. I stop to eat at a fast food place on the way home, barely able to choke down a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. I know I am now on a slippery slope and I had better back out now or lose my footing entirely. Whoever he is, he knows my fantasies and has essentially promised to make them come true. By the time I get home I am so aroused I head straight for my bedroom. I select one of my three stories and read it slowly, employing a favorite vibrator to bring myself to a spectacular orgasm. Exhausted, I finally slip into a fitful sleep.

I am lucky not to get fired on Tuesday. My mind is a thousand miles from work. I go home in a daze and yank open my mailbox. The letter is inside.

Trembling with anticipation, I tear open the envelope as soon as I get inside my apartment.

"Be at the address below at exactly seven tomorrow night. Dress appropriately. When you arrive, the door will be unlocked. Open the door and stop in the entryway. Do not masturbate tonight," is all it says. My knees nearly buckle. I lower myself into a chair and try to get control of my breathing.

The house number means nothing to me but the street name does. It's only three blocks over from my apartment complex. Walking distance perhaps?

The rest of the evening is a blur. I know I will be worthless at work tomorrow so I decide to call in sick in the morning. After my performance today, the boss will have no trouble believing there is something wrong with me.

But first I have to get through tonight. Food is out of the question. Alcohol isn't. I mix a pitcher of martinis, intending to drink the whole thing, but later decide I don't need a hangover in the morning. So I limit myself to two drinks, defy my stalker, and give myself two sensational orgasms before falling asleep.

As planned, I call in sick. My boss is solicitous, asking if there is anything she can do for me. I assure her that I will be back to full capacity by Thursday morning. Then I jump in my car and make a quick reconnaissance pass at the address I was given. It is a small, non-descript house in a neighborhood of small non-descript houses. As I had hoped, it is within easy walking distance. I don't want my car to be seen parked anywhere near the place.

I spend the day thinking about what is likely to happen tonight. He has all three stories. Each is a different scenario that conforms to my fairly simple bondage fantasies. My best guess is that he will choose one of the stories and bring some of its elements to life. I am both frightened and thrilled.

Then I begin to worry about my body. I take off my clothes and examine myself in the full-length mirror. I know I have a good body but I look for flaws anyway. My breasts are high and firm with prominent nipples. I cup one in each hand and pronounce them adequate. My hips are slender, my waist is small, and my legs are elegant and perfectly shaped. They are my best feature.