Thanks for reading my
Literotica Winter Holidays Story Contest 2024
entry! Have fun and please take good care of yourselves through the holiday season.
*
I couldn't tell you what jolted me awake from a sound sleep with a sense of impending doom that snowy December morning. There were no ominous tolls of the grandfather clock in the study, although those gongs often gave me the willies. Why did they decide to make those things sound like that, anyway? Nothing says "consequences are coming" like the ominous ringing of a grandfather clock.
The sense that karma was soon going to be crash landing on my life wasn't triggered by the fact that the bed that wrapped me in ridiculous thread count sheets was not actually my bed... or that the owner, Mr. Jacob "Jake" Michaels, had no reason to believe that I was using his house temporarily. It wasn't even that I knew that somewhere in the house there was a 120 lb Rottweiler named "Baby" according to his tag. Baby and I had an understanding: I let him snack on anything that looked interesting in the fridge or pantry, sleep on the bed, and snore like a freight train and in return for these courtesies, Baby let me borrow his master's house for a few weeks.
It's not that I'm a squatter. I'm not! I don't want to own any of these places that I inhabit for a short time. I just... really like them. They feel right! They're homes! They have food and warmth and comfort. They have incredible showers and come furnished with skin and hair products. They're like an oasis of recovery in an otherwise cruel world. I love these homes! Probably a lot more than any of the people who leave them abandoned for weeks at a time while they go do XYZ things in Dubai or Singapore or wherever. These gorgeous places need love instead of abandonment, and me? I have a lot of love to give.
So anyway, there I was waking up with a contented sigh on a pillow that could only have been invented with NASA technology, and I just felt... off. Feeling "off" is such a waste in a home like this, so I decided to just open my eyes and deal with the situation. That's when I saw him. Jake Michaels, I presumed. He looked tired, slumped low in an armchair across from where I slept on a luxurious cloud of whatever this mattress was made of. His clothes were the usual rich guy stuff, a bit rumpled, though. His shirt had two buttons undone and his chin nearly rested on the patch of skin that peeked through the opening. He looked to be in his late 30's, his body strong, but weary, at the moment.
Now, I'm not brilliant at social situations, but even *I* knew this one was awkward. Most people who come home to a modern-day Goldilocks, or Redlocks in my case, sleeping in their bed... well, they call the police, or scream, or generally take loud action, whereupon I would quickly exit and call out apologies for getting the wrong house, being drunk, or some other plausible excuse. Jake Michaels carried an armchair over to the side of the bed where I was sleeping and just sat there... well, honestly, it looked like he had melted there. It was pretty passive-aggressive, if you think about it. He obviously wanted me to know I'd been caught, but didn't want to invest the emotional energy to actually deal with the confrontation of throwing me out of his house. That's pretty toxic, if you ask me.
Well, since I have no tolerance for narcissists who can't be bothered to freak out when they're supposed to, I began the process of creeping out of the massive bed by butt-scooting backwards, away from my drowsy, passive-aggressive supervisor, until I would drop out of the other side of the bed, disappear from view and quietly crawl out of the house after gathering my things that I kept ready for quick escapes in a bag under the bed. That was the plan, anyway.
With the first backward butt scoot, though, Jake Nonconfrontational Michaels opens his eyes, rubs his hand over his face, blinks a few times, and says "Good morning."
"Good... morning?" I said, looking around uncomfortably.
"So..." he said, taking a short break to do a lion-like yawn, "Everly Landers, daughter of Renae Landers -- deceased -- and 'unknown father'... are you a tramp, or are you a hobo?" he asked.
Have you ever had a conversation where a guy just starts flexing by showing you they know way too much about you without explaining how they know it? Totally passive aggressive... and creepy. Not to mention that he wanted me to claim either the title of 'tramp' or 'hobo.' He seemed interested in the answer, though, and he wasn't just wrapping up his "WTF are you doing in my house" inquiry in veiled insults. Was I a tramp or was I a hobo?
"Is there a difference?" I asked, genuinely curious.
Jake leaned back in the armchair, crossed one long leg over the other, and then smiled like he found my question amusing. "Yes," he replied.
What a nice conversation, I thought, refraining from rolling my eyes. You know you're in trouble when you're trying to talk with someone who answers your yes-no questions with only "yes" or only "no." That bullshit is both passive... and aggressive... with each word pronounced separately with a smug, but handsome, smile. Ugh.
"What is the difference between a tramp and a hobo?" I asked, trying my best to appear interested rather than intensely irritated that I was having this conversation rather than being chased through the neighborhood by the police.
"The difference, Everly, is a willingness to work. A tramp is a person who travels around from place to place, avoiding work whenever possible. Whereas a hobo is a person who travels around from place to place, but is willing to work whenever possible," he said, tilting his head to the side and blinking slowly at me. "More particularly, in your case, the difference between a tramp and a hobo is a felony conviction."
"I haven't committed a felony!" I protested, sitting up in bed, "I just borrowed your house while you were gone!"
"Breaking and entering..." he said, flicking some lint off the leg of his pants, like the conversation was boring him.
"I didn't break anything and your dummy dog walker leaves the door unlocked and the security system off while he walks Baby. Practically left a "welcome" sign lit on the place. At best, I'm a trespasser and that's not a felony... I'm just a lingering party guest who doesn't leave a mess and only eats expired pantry items."
"Impressive. Your moral relativity is utterly wasted outside the legal profession. Trespassing, however, is a felony when performed with the intent to commit burglary... and that bauble around your neck is worth a small fortune."
That was when I noticed the weight of the necklace that hadn't been around my neck when I fell asleep last night. With trembling fingers, I reached up and touched it. I knew what it was without even looking down, remembering holding the impressive diamond necklace up against my decolletage when I found the jewelry stash in the walk-in closet suite near the bedroom. I usually don't go in for jewelry, but it's like there was some kind of magical charm surrounding it, drawing me in. That didn't explain why it was around my neck now, though.
"I... I didn't put this on, though! I just looked at it!" I squawked.
"And yet, there it is... I imagine the security footage showing you taking it out of the box and displaying it against your body will be enough for the prosecutor, though," he said, smiling at the rock resting on my upper chest.
"I... I didn't..." I stammered, clawing at the back of my neck, trying to feel for the clasp and remove it. I remembered that was the reason I hadn't actually tried the necklace on -- I couldn't figure out how to open or close it, and that's a recipe for trouble. Don't put on any jewelry you can't get out of. Then, it occurred to me, "You! You put this on me!" I accused.
"Unfortunately, I don't think there is security footage of that... I must have accidentally placed my luggage on the dresser and blocked the camera's view," Jake said with a tsch of regret. "As it is now, if you attempt to leave without my consent it will be quite simple for the authorities to track your location with the geo-tag concealed in the necklace and bring you to justice for several years. Pity."
