Memories of Murder

Luisa goes to the movies and gets picked up by a rich guy

This is an entry into the Winter Holidays 2019 Contest. Please be kind.

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I rent an apartment in Brooklyn in a nice building. It has doormen 24/7, and in the morning the New York Times is dropped off in front of my door. Classy! I'm a girl who reads the paper/print edition of a newspaper; maybe that makes me unique in Gen Z, I don't know. My parents subsidize my rent, preferring that I be safe in the big city. They think having doormen makes me safer. Maybe it does?

I rise early. I always have. I get up around 6AM, go to the kitchen and make coffee. The kitchen has a window, but it looks out at a brick wall of the neighboring building, so nobody can see inside. Nobody else is awake at that hour, anyway, except for the old man who lives across the courtyard, and he is always -- always! -- watching TV. Usually it's MSNBC, or a classic movie, but on weekend nights he watches porn -- gay male porn -- on his TV. I think he's never looked over at my apartment, but who really knows?

In the early morning I usually am doing things in my birthday suit. I like it. It makes me feel sexy, you know? Once I leave the three rooms (bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom) however, I have to put on a robe. I go to the sitting room to drink my coffee, eat my breakfast (yogurt and a hard-boiled egg), and read the New York Times. I can easily be seen in the sitting room, whence the robe.

Then fun time is over and I put on nylons, panties and a bra, a skirt and blouse, maybe a sweater, earrings, and make-up, and of course I brush my hair and do my face, and then I head out to work.

A couple of weeks ago I changed my routine. I'd bring my breakfast to bed and eat it there. I'd also bring my laptop and check Facebook and my email and the like, too. Normally I do it all on my phone, but recently I've been preferring using my laptop, with its larger screen. I don't follow anyone on Twitter. In fact, I hate Twitter.

The only reason I'd need to put on my robe was to get the newspaper, right outside my door, in the hallway.

I enjoy reading the paper, sipping my coffee, and eating my breakfast naked. Eventually I get dressed, and head out to the subway and off to work. I work as a corporate secretary. I feel I am good at my job. Once I'm at work, I forget all about the pleasures of my nudity.

I do enjoy, however, having my co-workers check me out. It seems they never get tired of doing that. To give them pleasure (hee, hee), I've taken to wearing short skirts to show off my legs. I also wear push-up bras and blouses that emphasize some décolletage. I don't date men from work, however. It could get both me and also the men fired. So, they only get to look, and I get the pleasure of being checked out, which -- quite frankly -- I love.

Back at home, a couple of weeks later I got up, and it was time to get the paper, and I went for my robe. It smelled; it desperately needed to be laundered. Damn. None of the times I had ever picked up the paper had I ever seen another soul. It took what -- twenty, thirty seconds? What were the odds? Minuscule. I'd just open the door, grab the paper, and close the door. Easy.

That's what I did. Stark naked, I got the paper. What a thrill I got from exposing myself like that! I was totally aroused just from the thrill of my daring, getting the paper naked and all. When I returned to my bedroom, instead of reading the paper I had just risked humiliating exposure to get, I went to a porn site. I watched a silly story about an exhibitionist with huge tits, and fingered myself as the eight-minute-long video told its sordid story.

I watched a second porn video, and then a third. I realized I was in the danger zone for being late to work, and I rushed off. I never had read the paper!

The next day, as I sipped my coffee and took little, dainty tastes of my yogurt, I began to think about the idea of getting the newspaper nude. I had now done it two days in a row! Sometime soon I'd really have to do the laundry. It was a Saturday, so work was off the table, and I thought about carrying this fascination with exhibitionism a little farther.

I have small boobs but prominent nipples. If I wear a thin bra, and most of my bras are thin, then my nipples poke at whatever top I'm wearing. Good for them! I find the look sexy; the next best thing to being topless. Pair that with skin tight yoga pants without panties, and you've found my new look!

I modeled various tops without even a bra, in front of the mirror. It being winter I opened a window and cold air rushed in, making my nipples harden and stand at attention. The effect was remarkable. I began to wonder if I could pick up a guy if I were to leave the apartment dressed in no bra, a thin top, and body-hugging yoga pants?

In a moment of stupidity that I told myself was bravery, I decided to go for it! I left the apartment in my outfit that I called the Next Best Thing to Nudity, or NBTN. I live in New York, so I got plenty of looks, but nobody tried anything as I walked around my neighborhood. I was pleased at all of the lecherous, self-conscious male stares, but ended up disappointed that no strangers hit on me.

I went back home, thoroughly discouraged. I checked myself out in the mirror, and yeah, I looked hot! Maybe men are just a bit uptight, or they might think it's rude to hit on a random woman that they see on the sidewalk? Who knows?

The next day was Sunday. I skipped church and instead went grocery shopping. Mostly it's women in the stores, but there are some men there too, to be sure. I loitered around the dairy case, and spent a long time choosing some ice cream flavors to buy. This gave my nipples quite a nice bit of stimulation from the cold, and the effects were noticeable. Good, I chuckled to myself!

I made my way, following my nipples the way others might follow their nose, over to the aisle with vitamins, deodorants, and shampoo. I was holding a particularly nice deodorant brand in my hand, reading the ingredients, when a good-looking man around my age asked me where I'd found it. He was looking me square in the nipples, not in the eye. Finally! A live one!

We had a nice, banal conversation while he continuously stared at my tits, and I giggled nervously a lot. Sadly, though, he never tried to make a move on me, like suggesting we get coffee together, or anything, really. I needed a new tactic.

The next weekend there was a film festival uptown, at Lincoln Center. It was for Korean films, and they were showing several films of the master, Bong Joon-Ho, in the Walter Reade theater, which is a great theater in which to see a movie. I'm not Korean; far from it, but I do like foreign films, and Bong Joon-Ho's films are simply the best. I went to see

Memories of Murder

.

In case you haven't seen it, the movie is inspired by the real-life story of a detective who is consumed with serial rapes and murders in a town in South Korea. He tries his best, aided by a detective who comes from Seoul, and ultimately fails. In the movie notes it's pointed out that the movie dates from 2003, but now, sixteen years later, the police have finally found the real killer, first by using DNA, and second, when confronted, having the real murderer confess.

Now however, it's December, 2019, in New York, and the temperature is in the low 40's with wind chills in the thirties and sometimes even in the twenties. Christmas is in the air. It's kind of hard to wear just a T shirt in that kind of weather, but I did it. I wore layers, and once I was in the theater I peeled off all of my layers, one after the other, until I got down to my T shirt, with my nipples really poking at it, something furiously! I enjoyed the way several men who caught sight of me reacted with lustful interest. It made me feel desirable. Then I watched the movie.

At the end I joined the huge line for the women's room, and one guy, maybe in his mid to late forties (I am 23) began to chat me up. That was nice, and I agreed to go for a drink with him at Bar Boulud, which is quite close by. He even waited for me to have my turn in the ladies' and he was there when I finally emerged. He took my arm and he escorted me, basically, across the street to the Bar.

Bar Boulud is an upscale bar where one can imbibe amazingly delicious French wine, and eat equally delicious small French plates. As we sipped at our wine, we looked into each other's eyes and made small talk. Unlike many men I have known, Mike was gregarious, and a real charmer. He was obviously not hurting for money, but he didn't seem to have the ugly politics that tended to come with a life of privilege.

Mike also shared my love for the arts, and -- to my delight -- also for classical music. We both shared our affection for string quartet music, but our tastes also both extended to modern jazz, and even to the movie music of Ennio Morricone and his ilk. You know the music: Morricone wrote the sound tracks of the Clint Eastwood/Sergio Leone so-called spaghetti westerns, for example. I began to kind of -- just a little, mind you -- fall for Mike.

Bar Boulud is not cheap and I made a metaphorical gulp when I saw the prices. I was kind of hoping the guy, whose name, as I said, was Mike, would offer to treat me, you know? Of course, if I accepted, wasn't the norm that some small amount of sex would follow? Maybe some heavy kissing and him feeling me up? Did I want that?

My father, and also my brother, are 'let's cross that bridge when we come to it' kinds of people. I'm not: I'm a pre-emptive worrier. It's part of being female: We have to be ready for whatever comes and have a diplomatic response ready, you know? I was truly hoping Mike was not the kind of guy who thought buying a girl a nice meal earned him a joyous time in the sack with her!

He was.

Once we had finished eating and drinking, emphasis on the drinking, he told me he had some really good weed back at his place. As it turns out, that was the perfect thing to say to me. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I meekly followed him into a taxi and off we went to his Park Avenue apartment.

I'm not a big fan of apartment living, since the spaces are so small, but that's only because I'd never seen a Park Avenue apartment! His apartment had two floors, hot and cold running servants, and in terms of square feet it was twice the size of my parents' house! I was blown away.

Once inside, I once again peeled off all my layers of clothes until I was down to my T shirt. My nipples had calmed down, but Mike led me out to one of several balconies, where we could light up. He didn't like the smell that smoking indoors left behind, especially since it tended to diffuse throughout his apartment. It was freezing cold in the wind out on the balcony, and my nipples responded as a girl's nipples will.

"Your breasts are enticing," Mike said.

"I'm glad you like them," I replied.

"I surely do. Also, your yoga pants really show off your tight bubble butt," he said.

"This conversation is making me uncomfortable," I said, which I figured had to be obvious. I hadn't expected an elegant man such as Mike to be so crude.

We smoked in silence for a while. Mike hadn't lied, the weed was indeed spectacular. There was no way of course that Mike could've known this, but getting stoned makes me horny. There's nothing I like more that the feel of a man's cock thrusting in and out of me while I'm stoned. It's kind of a magical feeling. I assume it's good for the guy, too, but how could I really know?

I think Mike somehow saw the lust in my eyes. Everybody has always told me I have a transparent face, and people always seem to know what I'm thinking, and just then I was thinking about how nice a vigorous session of making love might be, you know?

Of course, we had both just seen the movie (

Memories of Murder

) about a South Korean serial rapist and murderer, who killed the women after he raped them, strangling them with their own clothes. That is pretty far from being erotic. To compensate, the handsome, debonair, and rich man Mike, had plied me with good food and wine and now with pot. He had been charming and seductive, and I was a sexpot ready for the plucking.

Mike is good at plucking.

I still had a modicum of self-respect, and even though I was drunk, stoned and horny, I did make some token gestures of resistance. You know the kind: I just met you, I really shouldn't, I'm not that kind of a woman to be intimate on the first date, we've only known each other for a few hours, etc. Mike knew somehow that all of my resistance was just for show: I wanted to fuck him as much as he wanted to fuck me.

"I really need to get my hands on your tits. They've been taunting me all evening long," Mike said, and I felt like instructing him on the value of silence. He kept talking as he pulled off my yoga pants; I managed to cling to my panties to keep them on. My T shirt was off next, and I was naked except for my panties.

At that moment, as I lay there on the bed, his to ravage, his man-servant Hyungsok, entered the room. "You rang, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, Hyungsok. A glass of Scotch for me and a Drambuie for the lady," Mike said.

The lady, i.e., me, was blushing bright red as Hyungsok took a good look at the soon-to-be next sexual conquest of his patron Mike. When Hyungsok returned with the two drinks I was naked with my legs spread and Hyungsok enjoyed taking in the complete view, unimpeded by such quaint artifacts as clothing. Hyungsok left and as soon as he was gone, without warning, I felt the fabulous sensation of Mike's cock inside me. My God, it felt good! Mike's technique was basic: It was thrust, and thrust, and thrust yet again, and each single thrust sent tingles up my spine.

As Mike fucked me I couldn't get Hyungsok out of my mind; maybe it was due to seeing all those handsome Korean actors in

Memories of Murder

, only hours earlier. Apparently, Mike remembered the movie, too, because after he gloriously shot his load inside me, he tied my hands and feet with my own clothes! He wrapped my panties around my head, and just as I was about to tell him I was not amused, he used my nylons to gag me, wrapping them around my neck!

Mike was perfectly imitating the serial murderer in the movie, except that I had not been raped; no, instead I had been expertly seduced. His next step would have been to strangle me to death with my nylons, and stick objects from my purse into my vagina, but thank God he did not do those things. I just lay there, all trussed up and not amused, for a long time. Then Hyungsok returned.

"Master wants me to free you. I am sorry," Hyungsok said. Bizarrely, first he undressed and suddenly I saw he had one hell of a large cock. This was strange; being tied up and taken against the woman's will was one of my go-to porn videos. It was in my 'favorites.' Of course, it was all fake, performed by an actress, but this was most certainly real!

Hyungsok did not rape me, thank goodness. Despite my fantasy and favorite porn videos, I definitely did not want to be raped! Instead he simply gradually freed me from my bondage, all the time with his huge cock hanging out there, just begging to be fondled. It was kind of like: I have a huge cock, and you're naked, and now I'm naked, and attention must be paid.

I tried to speak but when I did all I achieved was to make incomprehensible sounds accompanied by the disgusting after-taste of my nylons in my mouth. Hyungsok must have become curious, because I was not shutting up, even if my sounds were incomprehensible.

Hyungsok hesitated. I think he kind of liked the idea of giving me a great fuck, and I was just lying there, like a duck decoy. I was getting more and more fearful of what I'd gotten myself into. Did Mike want me to have sex with Hyungsok, or was this some kind of test just to see how much of a slut he had picked up?

While I was debating all these thoughts, and not grabbing my clothes and getting dressed, and while I was still mesmerized by Hyungsok's oversized cock which, I noticed, was now rock hard, I suddenly felt Hyungsok enter me. His long cock quickly went inside me up to the hilt, and at that point, like it or not, the die was cast. We were fucking.

Like Mike before him, Hyungsok thrust inside me, repeatedly, over and over again, setting yet another new world's record for long fucks! I couldn't help it; I knew I was being fucked back-to-back by two men, and then there's the whole interracial thing, and these were my primary porn food groups! I love the interracial videos, and I absolutely love the videos where some poor unfortunate wench gets tricked into fucking two guys, instead of the only one guy she had bargained for. Now here it was, happening to me!

Hyungsok finally added his jism to my sloppy cunt, and I just lay there, dripping cum onto Mike's bed, still drunk and stoned, and now thoroughly fucked, even very thoroughly fucked. I had climaxed during Hyungsok's marathon fuck, and I would have liked it to have been subtle, but it was anything but. I was so embarrassed. Well, what would it matter if soon Mike were to dump me for being too much of a slut? I'd had a good time, after all, and so far I didn't have that much emotional capital invested in the relationship. For example, Mike had never even asked me my name (Luisa) and I didn't know his family name. He was only "Mike."

Mike returned, took some pictures of me while naked, and kissed me lovingly.

"How about a nice blowjob out on the balcony? Stay naked," he said.

"Can't some of your neighbors see us out there?" I asked.

"Yes, probably, but only if they look. Want to? I'd love one out there," Mike said.

"Okay," I said, thoroughly without enthusiasm. However, I was thrilled Mike seemed not to be disgusted with me after Hyungsok and I had fucked.

Mike led me out to the same balcony. We both smoked some more weed, with each of us naked and freezing, and my nipples were hard from both the sex and the cold. I felt sure people were watching us. I glanced over, across the street, and immediately saw a man with a camera with a gigantic telephoto lens. I figured the granularity of his camera was such that he could probably have seen, in detail, a pimple on my face, were I to have had one.

I played to the cameras. Thrilled to no longer be tied up, relieved that Mike did not hold me in total contempt, and excited to be on display, I gave Mike, whom I had now reclassified in my mind as a kind of nice asshole, no doubt one of the best blowjobs of his life. Before I finished him off, however, he put me on my hands and knees and fucked me from behind. I didn't mind; except for the cold, I was enjoying it. I was kind of thrilled to no longer be fearing Mike's disgust with my loose morals!

Mike wanted me to spend the night with him, no doubt imagining lots of sex later in the night, perhaps even a threesome with Hyungsok? And like all men, he no doubt imagined getting a good morning blowjob or fuck, but I was having none of it. I told him I was going home. He ordered his chauffeur to drive me, but I didn't want him to know where I lived!

I told the driver I lived near Grand Central Station, and he dropped me there, and then I took a subway back to my apartment in Brooklyn. I woke up the next day as if it had all been a good, turned to bad, dream. I went through my morning routine, naked as usual, and I was debating if I would wear my robe to get the paper. As I was debating it, my cell phone rang.

It was Mike. One of the big museums was having a special party for big donors only, and their "plus ones." He explained it was both a reward for past gifts, and an opportunity to ask for more gifts, since it was near the winter holidays, and more important, near the end of the year. It was a chance to get one more charitable deduction before year's end. He already had his gift prepared.