On A Slippery Slope Ch 03

Brian does not make an appearance on Wednesday or Thursday. I assume he is working at one of the other companies nearby. I see him briefly on Friday and suggest we go to happy hour with the rest of the crowd from the office. He declines with what seems like sincere regret. He has to work at the computer store tonight and most of the weekend.

Saturday's mail is a major disappointment. There is nothing from my stalker. I am bummed out and feel a bit depressed for the rest of the weekend, but I recover a little when I realize we are likely to be together the following weekend. I have a nice dinner with my parents and Angie on Sunday.

By Wednesday, I am feeling uneasy. I have not seen Brian once this week. In desperation, I pull the computer cable trick on my desktop unit and place a trouble call. Twenty minutes later a man I have never seen before enters my office.

"Where's Brian?" I ask, barely being civil to the guy.

"He's at the other end of the state," he replies. "His Guard unit was activated yesterday because of the flooding down south. What's your problem?"

"My what?"

"Your computer problem."

"I don't know. That's why I called you guys," I respond testily. I vaguely recall hearing something about flooding on the news a day or so ago but I don't remember anything about the National Guard being needed.

The guy pokes around for a couple of minutes, finds the disconnected cables, and reconnects them.

"You're all set," he says with a smile.

"Thanks. When will Brian be back?" I ask, smiling back at him, trying to be nice.

"Beats me," he says, grabbing his tool kit and heading out the door.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Now I am really upset.

I glue myself to the TV when I get home. The flooding is awful. How could this happen and I'm only vaguely aware of it?

"Because Carla, you are a self-absorbed little tramp," I reply to myself out loud, "that's how."

I'm ashamed of myself. People only a hundred miles away have lost everything and all I can think about is my stalker tying me up and fucking me again. But my sympathy doesn't last long. I feel sorrier for myself than I do for them. I realize I have become a shallow twit. I don't care.

Suddenly I panic. What if I get instructions in the mail this week? I'll do whatever they say because I need another encounter with my stalker, but it will mean that Brian isn't the one. I worry about this for the rest of the week.

Mercifully, Saturday night arrives. Mail delivery for the week ended today with no contact from my stalker. Brian is still in the running.

On Sunday, I beg off dinner with my parents but discover that there is a god. The governor announces that the Guard will be standing down the next day. Brian should be home Monday night and back at work on Tuesday.

I don't see Brian until Wednesday. We have coffee together in the lunchroom. He looks tired. I hope it's because he's been working late on whatever restraint device or fucking machine he is going to use on me next. Then I feel guilty. I am so selfish.

The week passes without any contact from my stalker. I am circling the drain now. Maybe I did something during our last encounter that put him off. Was it because I had to use the safe word? I can't believe that's the case; he made love to me afterward. Maybe Brian isn't my stalker after all and something has happened to the real one.

Dinner with my family and Angie doesn't cheer me up.

Another week goes by and I decide that Brian is avoiding me. I only see him twice in the hallway as he moves from job to job.

I no longer eat at regular times. If my body tells me it needs fuel, I scrounge up something unless it seems like too much trouble.

I've stopped making up my bed in the morning. I no longer watch the videos; they are too depressing since I now believe I'll never again be fucked by my stalker.

It seems very likely that I no longer have a stalker. My toys lie unused in the drawer by my bed. I have abandoned the website that started it all. Reading about other people's bondage adventures is now a real downer.

All my friends at work, and my boss, know something is wrong. I am deluged with offers of help if I'll just tell them about my problem. I tell them I don't want to talk about it.

I'd love to talk about it, particularly to Angie who is very solicitous, but I can't. How on earth can I explain what I've been doing and how depressed I am that the dangerous game appears to have ended?

I tell my parents that I don't feel well and won't be coming for dinner.

Another week goes by. I see little of Brian and I refuse all invitations. I have started parking my car in a different part of my apartment complex. I don't want any of my friends to see the car, think I'm home, and start banging on my door. Ditto for my family.

Once again I beg off from dinner with my parents. My mother is getting suspicious.

On Thursday of the following week Angie, whose office is just down the hall, marches into my office late in the afternoon and shuts the door.

"Okay, girlfriend. This has to stop," she announces, her arms folded under her breasts. I burst into tears and she comes around to my side of the desk to pull my face against her stomach. I cry for a long time while she strokes my hair.

"Tell me," she says softly.

"I can't," I sob. "I have to work this thing out by myself. I'm really okay."

"Okay, my ass," she counters. "But you aren't going to talk about it, are you?"

"No."

Angie takes a deep breath and says something that immediately grabs my attention.

"I love you, but you need to get a grip on yourself and you need a shower," she announces as she kisses the top of my head before leaving the office.

I rush into the ladies room and sniff my underarms. She's right and I am mortified. I raise one arm and look into the mirror. Stubble, and lots of it. I reach down and find a similar condition on my legs. I can't remember when I shaved last. I am disgusted with myself.

I look at my watch. Only fifteen minutes until quitting time. I hide in my office. At five o'clock on the dot I grab my purse, leave the office, and immediately run into my boss.

"Carla, give me a minute," she says as she gestures for me to follow her into her office.

"Everyone is worried about you. I want you to take tomorrow off and work on whatever it is that's making you this way. I need the old Carla back. Take Monday off too if need be. Don't come back to work until you can bring the old Carla with you."

She smiles as she says this to soften the words, but I know she means business. If I try to speak, I'll cry so I just nod my head and beat a hasty retreat.

When I get to my car I see a couple of shriveled McDonald's fries in the driver's seat and an old dried up paper coffee cup in the holder. How long have they been there? There is more debris on the passenger side.

As expected, there is nothing of interest in my mail. I enter my apartment and look around. A pig lives here. There are dirty dishes in my sink. Some are days old. When I look more closely I see paper plates in the mix. Paper plates in my sink?

Empty and half-empty Solo cups are everywhere. I see an empty gin bottle on my coffee table and find another in my trash, which is overflowing. Dust lies thickly on every surface.

Angie got my attention. I take a shower, shave my legs and underarms, and wash my hair twice. I pull on shorts and a tee shirt and begin to clean. It takes two trips to the dumpster to get rid of all the debris.

I vacuum, dust, change my sheets, and do the dishes. Fortunately I have a small apartment. At nine o'clock I am done and I take another shower. I'm starving. I put on a fresh outfit and head for Taco Bell. Not particularly healthy, but I can't do much better at this time of night. Tomorrow I'll do my laundry and shop for groceries.

I sleep like a baby for the first time in weeks and wake up refreshed. There is nothing in the house to eat so I go to Dunkin Donuts. I nearly faint from pleasure when I bite into a chocolate-covered treat.

I go home and haul my dirty sheets and clothing down to the laundry room in the basement of my building. While the machine is doing its thing, I make out a grocery list. I throw everything in the dryer and go back up stairs. I am filled with resolve because I have made a decision. I am going to my stalker's house tonight uninvited. If he's there, I'll confront him. If he isn't I'll go home and force myself to forget about him.

The day goes by quickly. I treat myself to a nice lunch and then head for the grocery store. I need just about everything so I buy just about everything. After putting it all away, I pull out the dress and shoes I wore to his house. They are in good condition and ready to go.

I eat a good dinner, grateful that I am once again capable of preparing something with nutritional value. At six o'clock I get dressed. A bra and panties are included in my ensemble this time around. I drive to his house and park directly in front, no longer caring who sees me or my car.

Marching up to the front door, I ring the doorbell. Nothing happens. I ring it again and wait a good thirty seconds. Just as I turn to leave, the door opens and I'm confronted with an elderly woman, somewhere in her seventies I guess. I am stunned.

"Yes dear? May I help you?" she asks.

"I was lo...looking for the owner," I stammer.

"I'm Edna Wilson. I'm the owner. I've lived here for almost forty years."

"I'm so sorry to have bothered you," I exclaim, looking around to see if I have the wrong house. "I was hoping to find..."

"Connor, I'll bet. Come inside sweetie, it's still hot out there. Let me fix you a nice glass of iced tea."

Not knowing what else to do, and not having a clue what I'll find, I step into the entryway. A quick upward glance tells me the entryway speaker and the camera are gone. When she leads me back to her kitchen I peer into both bondage rooms. They are nicely furnished. The ring bolt in the ceiling of the first room is gone and repairs have been made. All the cameras, pencil spots, and speakers are missing.

Mrs. Wilson gestures for me to take a seat at the table that once held voice disguising equipment, the monitor, and the strange little console. I am freaked out. I start to hyperventilate.

"Oh my, what's wrong dear?" she asks.

"I just feel a little faint for some reason," I respond with a quiver in my voice. "I'll be okay when I have a bit of that tea."

Mrs. Wilson sets a glass of tea, a sugar bowl, and a plate of lemon slices in front of me. With a glass of her own, she joins me at the table.

"Okay now," she begins. "How can I help you? It must have something to do with Connor."

I need a story and I need it quickly. I improvise.

"My parents were killed in a car crash when I was little. There was no other family so my brother and I went into foster care. We were separated soon after. I've been looking for him ever since. My search eventually led me to this neighborhood and, I thought, to this house," I say, feeling guilty with two healthy parents less than five miles away.

"Well, honey," she says, "I'm not sure how much help I can give you. I don't think Connor is his real name."

"You don't?" I respond, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"Lucille, that's my sister who lives on the west coast, had a serious operation at the end of February. We knew that rehab was going to take several months, so I decided to rent the place and go help her. I ran an ad in the paper and Connor called me right away. I rented the house to him for quite a bit less than it was worth in exchange for him taking care of the place, cutting the grass, and working through a list of maintenance items I gave him."

I nod my head to encourage her, but I don't have a clue how any of this is relevant.

"Connor paid me for three months up front with a check, but the name on the check wasn't Connor." Suddenly she now has my undivided attention.

"What was the name?" I ask her, my heart in my throat.

"I don't remember. It was months ago and the check didn't bounce so I sort of stopped thinking about it."

I must have looked crestfallen because Mrs. Wilson patted me on the arm.

"But I can find out," she offers.

"If it's not too much trouble, I'd like that," I respond, my voice thick with emotion.

"Hang on a minute," she says, getting up from the table and leaving the room. A minute later she returns with an accordion folder.

"Mr. Wilson, rest his soul, taught me to make copies of everything in a business transaction. I'm sure I made a copy of the check before I took it to the bank."

After searching around in the folder, she produces a sheet of paper and hands it over to me. My heart nearly stops. The name on the check is Brian K. Devlin and an address here in town is printed below his name. I nearly faint from the feelings that surge through my body.

"How long have you been back?" I ask her, my voice shaking from the adrenaline.

"Two weeks. Lucille recovered more quickly than we thought, so I came home a bit early." She answers, "Are you okay, dear?"

"I'm all right," I say. "I'm just a little shocked. Brian is my brother's name. May I have a copy of this made? I'll bring the original right back to you." Brian didn't lose interest at all. He simply didn't have time to set up the third encounter and then restore Mrs. Wilson's house to its original condition before she returned home. I am elated.

"We can make the copy right here, easy as pie. Mr. Wilson bought one of those all-in-one machines a year or so before he passed. I'll be right back." A minute later she comes back with a copy and hands it to me.

"Oh thank you, thank you so much," I tell her sincerely.

"Well, I hope it helps. Do you think he's your brother?"

"I don't know. If he got adopted, he has a different last name than we had as little kids. Maybe Devlin is the right one. I'll just have to look him up and see what happens." I marvel at how easily the lies slip out of my mouth. And I need to get out of here before she starts to ask hard questions. I finish my tea in a gulp and rise from the table.

Mrs, Wilson seems satisfied with my story because she doesn't press me for more information as she walks me to her door. She pats me on the arm as I turn to leave.

"Good luck dear," she calls. "I hope everything works out for you."

"Not half as much as I do," I mutter under my breath when I am far enough away.

I drive back to my apartment and sit staring at the name and address of my stalker. Now that I have the information, I'm not exactly sure what to do with it. I decide to do a drive-by as soon as it gets dark.

I plug his address into my GPS unit and soon find myself parked across the street from a nice single story house, considerably larger than Mrs. Wilson's. I do not see a Camaro but there is a motorcycle parked nearby. I decide not to hang around. He could be anywhere, so I return home.

I don't know what to do next, so I drag out my laptop and both DVDs. I give myself two sensational orgasms while I watch Brian fuck me, and then fall asleep almost immediately.

On Sunday I join my family for dinner. When I walk in the house, my father jumps up with both fists in the air.

"She lives! She lives!" he yells. I stick my tongue out at him and go help mom in the kitchen. She tells me that Angie won't be able to make it tonight. I am disappointed.

I get home by early evening and mix a martini. As I sip the concoction, I ponder my situation. All of a sudden I know the truth, but Brian no longer has a place for us to continue the game.

I doubt that we will develop a real relationship, and I can no longer handle the stress this secret has put me through. The death spiral I was in nearly cost me my job. After a second martini, I decide that the best thing to do is confront him and end this business once and for all.

****

I am back at work on Monday morning feeling bright and chipper. Angie lays the back of her hand across my forehead as though checking for a fever.

"What the hell happened to you? You look wonderful!" she exclaims.

"You got my attention on Thursday. Thank you. I also got my problem worked out." Well, most of it, I think to myself.

"Good. I'm glad you're back. I missed you," she says and then abruptly changes direction. "You still aren't going to tell me about it, are you?"

"Nope." I wish I could tell her, but I can't. At least not until I have everything fully resolved.

"I didn't think so," she says, giving me a hug before heading off to her office. I go the other way, looking for my boss.

"The old Carla is reporting for duty," I announce to her with a salute.

"Good. Get to work," she orders but then breaks into a broad grin. "Welcome back."

Monday and Tuesday are a blur of activity. On Wednesday, Brian is waiting for me in the lunchroom when I arrive at work.

"Will you go to dinner with me Friday night," he asks the second I cross the threshold into the room.

I've been waiting for this guy to ask me out for an eternity, but I decide to go forward with my plan.

"I have a better idea. Why don't we go out for a drink tonight; sort of get to know each other a little. If that goes well, we can talk about what happens next. How about Hot Spot right after work?" I suggest, naming a local watering hole that is close by.

Brian looks a little put off, but he recovers quickly. "Works for me. I'll be there."

I spend the day working hard, but I still have time to think about the odd turn of events. Mrs. Wilson is back in her house, so our bondage days are over. But, because of her, I confirm that Brian is my stalker. And now he wants to take me out on a date.

I get to the pub a little early and snag a small semi-circular booth in the back that will give us some privacy. Brian comes in moments later and I wave to get his attention. He slides into the booth beside me and I catch the faint scent of his aftershave. It is the same as my stalker. More confirmation.

Brian signals for a server. She takes our order, a cosmopolitan for me and scotch for him. When our drinks arrive and the server departs, I pull the copy of his check to Mrs. Wilson out of my purse and slide it over to him. He stares down at the piece of paper for a long time, looks back up at me, and takes a couple of deep breaths.

"Are you going to call the cops?" he finally asks.

"Why on earth would I do that? I was a willing participant and I've been old enough to vote for years. If you hadn't set it up the way you did, it would not have happened. I would never have agreed to something like that up front. You had to trick me. How did you do it, by the way?"

"I had trouble recovering some of your files after I fixed your laptop. One of the corrupted files was in a 'Recipe' folder. I found some interesting stuff in there. When I read the stories, I had a pretty good idea of your sexual interests. I saw an opportunity and I took it. I installed a piece of malware that allows me to snoop through your computer whenever it's powered up. Not very ethical and very possibly illegal."

"Don't worry about that," I reply "I have to admit I enjoyed myself immensely."

"I'm glad," he responds. "Did Mrs. Wilson tell you about Connor?"

"She mentioned the name, but it made no sense to me. She thought it was odd that your check had a different name than she expected but, since it didn't bounce, she didn't give it much thought.

"Connor is my twin brother; my monoamniotic identical twin brother."

"What?"

"Same amniotic sac. Identical twins can't get any closer than that," he answers. "And we share everything. Always have."

"What did you just say?" I ask, my voice beginning to shake as something tells me I'm in for a huge shock.

"Connor is my identical twin brother," Brian reiterates. "That check is the only mistake we made. Connor answered the ad in the paper using his own name, but I'm the one who wrote out the check."