Lorena had only had a couple of drinks at the office St. Patrick's Day party. However, she did have a light buzz going as she climbed into her car, fumbled the keys out of her purse, dropped them on the floor, found them again and finally tried to insert the trunk key in the ignition. It took her a few moments to realize her mistake, but she finally got the car started. She knew she ought not be driving, but she convinced herself that she wasn't drunk enough to be a danger to anybody and pulled out of the parking lot. She stopped at the gate, blinking until she only saw two posts on either side, then very carefully rolled out into the main road and pointed her nose home. It was only a thirty-minute drive home, but she was completely breathless and nearly sober by the time she finally pulled into her driveway.
As she hit the garage door button, she thought back on her drive home. She'd seen a number of very busy policemen and another who'd waved her around a car with it's rear end sticking out of a ditch. Another three had been busy with drunks – a man in handcuffs getting loaded in the back of a patrol car, a woman on the side being given a sobriety test and the another leaning into a car window. This St. Patrick's weekend wasn't much different from most others. With a very relieved sigh, she pulled into her garage and remained sitting in the car for a few minutes, shaking as she realized how close she'd come to getting caught.
Lorena was an older lady, just a little over fifty, but didn't look it. She was still a very good-looking woman. Most of her kids had already grown and flown the coop. Her youngest boy, Jeffrey, was still technically living at home, although he was currently three states away in college or, as he said affecting a European posture, "at University." She stepped out of her car, watched the garage door close, then turned to the mud room door. As she pushed it open, she heard a whisper of something that sounded like wings and a slight breeze ruffled her hair. She spun around, almost losing her balance as the spikes on her high heels caught the edge of the steps, barely saving herself a fall by grabbing the stair rail. She looked around, up and behind her, but she didn't see anything. She mentally cursed the damned spike-heeled platforms she'd learned to love as a young girl.
"What the fuck," she muttered aloud to herself, "damn cops on the road got me all jumpy."
She shook the feeling out of her head and walked on in, flipping the lights on. She was still a little spooked, so she lit the place up, checking out the kitchen and the big pantry, before walking through the family room, the living room, and down the hallway, pushing open the unused bedroom doors as she went. She finally ended up in her bedroom and, leaving all the lights on, shrugged out of her dress and kicked off her shoes. With a final suspicious peek into her roomy walk-in closet, she dropped her purse on her bed and stripped down to her stockings, bra and half-slip. Reaching under the half-slip, she wriggled out of her tight, so-called control-top, panties, sighing as the breeze hit her damp, bare cunt. She stood for a few seconds, not realizing that she was standing in front of her dresser mirror as she caressed her de-haired pussy. She didn't like to shave, but she liked the smooth feeling of being hairless, so she waxed her vulva, legs and arms. She used a depilatory cream on her face and eyebrows, penciling the eyebrows in when she fixed her makeup. When she realized that she was standing in front of the mirror, she quickly pulled her hands off her pussy and grinned at her reflection.
"What say we play with Dickie after a while," she asked her reflection.
"Dickie" was her fat, ten-inch vibrating Chinese dildo. An ebony wood creation, it had knobs and rounded spikes carved into it, a bottom mounted dragon that fit deep into her asshole and a top-mounted ram that tickled her clitoris. It was hollowed out for the vibrating machinery. She'd had several dildos that had served her more or less satisfactorily, but when she was given Dickie by an oriental girlfriend, she'd fallen in love with it at first try. It was long enough to press against her cervix, the dragon fit pleasurably deep in her asshole and the ram's twin curled horns cradled her clittie just right. Lorena smiled at her reflection once more, patted her pussy and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, feeling a little peckish. As she passed Jeff's room, she again heard the whisper of wings and stumbled slightly, shivering with a sudden terror that washed over her instantly.
"What the fuck!" she gasped, ducking and dropping almost to her knees as she looked around her in a panic finding . . . nothing.
Lorena panted, gasping as she squatted, fingers digging into the carpet and sheer terror freezing her in place. She stared wildly around her, unable to move a muscle as she tried to peer into Jeff's bedroom, but she still saw nothing.
"If there's nothing there, then what in the fuck am I scared of," she quavered to herself, "nothing, right?" she tried to laugh but only shuddered with fear.
She finally managed to unhook her fingers from the carpeting and, standing up, crept up beside Jeff's bedroom door and peeked around the door edge. She'd opened the door earlier on the way to her bedroom, but she hadn't turned on the light and was unable to see with the dim light shining in from the hall light. Timidly she reached a fearful hand to the inside light switch and flipped it on, flooding the small bedroom with the bright overhead light. Mustering up her courage, she hesitantly walked in. She thought of calling the police, but what would she tell them? That she thought she'd heard a noise and it had scared her? They'd laugh at her, but then . . . wasn't that what the police were for? To dispel the bogeyman or the idea of a bogeyman? No, there was no need for them. There was nothing here that could hurt her. It had to have been the central air she'd heard and felt, still . . . she spotted Jeff's old baseball bat and picked it up. Hefting it made her feel better. Randy had taken the guns when he'd left with that young, Swedish bimbo, the bastard, she fussed, he'd left her defenseless. Oh, well, she sighed as she stood up on trembling legs, she was still hungry and hadn't seen anything. She continued on to the kitchen, still shaken, convincing herself that it was the central air that she'd felt. Regardless, she kept the bat in her hands and left the light in Jeff's room on.
She raised the bat as she stepped into the kitchen, ready to swing at anyone or anything who might jump at her. Still nothing. She shrugged and assayed a feeble chuckle at her fear as she pulled the peanut butter and honey from the cupboard and dug out the last slice of pumpernickel. That's all she wanted anyway, she told herself, just a half sandwich. She quickly slathered peanut butter and honey on it, plated it, poured herself a half-glass of skim milk and, grabbing a napkin, headed for the family room, figuring on watching some TV and eating her sandwich. With the baseball bat under her arm, she settled into Randy's old armchair – her armchair now – kicked on the boob tube and sat back to eat her solitary half-sandwich and drink her milk.
Between the alcohol she'd drunk, the lateness of the hour and her hunger pangs gone, Lorena leaned back in the chair, tucked her feet under her and dozed with the late, late, late show. The bat slowly slipped out of her hand and thudded softly on the thick pile carpeting. The last few sips of her milk sat beside the last bite of her sandwich as she snored softly. She'd been aslept for a few minutes when, as if gently pulled by an invisible hand, her left foot slipped out from under her. It stood straight out, held by an unseen hand as it swung to the side. She stirred and groaned softly without awakening. Then her right foot came out, just as softly and gently as her left, leaving her sitting on the back of her butt – the bottom of her spine. She stirred again as her feet came up, seemingly to the waist of a standing person.
