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.
