At the time that my story starts, Jamie and I gotten married six years previously. I distinctly remember the minister at our 300 guest wedding with seven bridesmaids and groomsmen, and $20,000 worth of flowers, asking "Do you Jamie Elizabeth Snowden take Blake William Benson to be your lawful wedded husband...forsaking all others...until death do you part?" I also distinctly remember her saying "Yes," as she made goo-goo eyes at me, which I interpreted as a vow that she wasn't going to fuck anyone else while we were married.
I took a similar vow, while making almost identical goo-goo eyes at her.
I always felt that Jamie and I were a good match since we had similar goals in life and liked many of the same things; however we had enough differences to always make things interesting. For example, Jamie was very competitive, having played sports fiercely most of her life, while I was more laid back and a consensus-building type. While I was athletic, I never had the drive necessary to truly succeed in sports. Also she's more social building many superficial relationships, while I'm an ambivert, enjoying social situations but preferring to establish only a few meaningful relationships.
As would fit someone with the best upbringing by well-connected wealthy parents, Jamie got a great college education at one of the top schools in the Eastern U. S., and landed a job as a pharmaceutical sales rep. She got her high-paying job by relying not only on her education and intelligence, but her good looks. It seems that Big Pharma wants only good looking people calling on hospitals and doctors, I guess to distract them from the fact that they're getting raped monetarily. Anyway, since Jamie is five feet seven inches tall with a one hundred twenty pound nicely proportioned body, with long blond hair, a winning smile, and sparkling almost neon-green eyes, she's been very successful; so much so that she's been able to write her own ticket as far as drugs that she sells and territory are concerned.
Jamie has explained her reasons as to why her territory has to take her away from our high end condo three nights a week or sometimes on weekends – something having to do with the major drug that she's responsible for having a limited though highly lucrative market, although I don't really understand it. I don't like her being gone three nights a week, let alone on some weekend days; I'm lonely and I crave companionship.
Anyway, I often have bumbled along on nights that she's gone going to movies or ball games, or bowling, with male friends; but mostly I end up sitting home watching TV. My job doesn't require travel – in fact I almost don't have to leave my condo area (I can even get work done at the pool or in the extensive health club) if I don't want to. I do on-line sales of proprietary computer software and hardware that make renewable energy systems much more efficient, and integrate them smoothly with the electrical grid. Actually, I invented the proprietary items that I sell and can do the software transfers from my high powered home office computer, and I only have to oversee the hardware manufacture (in a suburb of the major city that I live in) for a few hours a week.
Since I'm at home a lot during the day, I know most of the neighbors, something not really normal in most American condo buildings where you only see other people from your building if you go to the monthly condo meetings. The other residents tried to talk me into being president of the condo association although I was able to resist – but I did agree to manage the books of the association.
Our condo has got four two story residences on each two floors, and a one story residence on each floor. The two story residences have an office and three bedrooms in addition to a kitchen, large living room, and three full bathrooms. The one story residences have a small living room, kitchen, bathroom, powder room, one bedroom, and a small den.
* * * * * *
The one story residence, 5B, next to our 5th floor entrance, 5A, is rented by a woman who looks too young to afford the rent for a condo in our high end building. I'd guess that she's twenty three; Jamie and I are only twenty nine so I guess many others in the building think the same thing about us, especially since we own our condo and don't rent. The young woman's name is Cecile Wilson. Most occupants are not around during the day on weekdays so they don't know that Cecile is home most weekdays and often has from two to four visitors a day – all male. Cecile's appearance, and the stream of male visitors, led me to conclude early on that Cecile was likely a high priced call girl.
Even though I had my suspicions about Cecile's profession, it's not a subject that I broached with her the three dozen or so times that I saw her at the pool or the health club the first year that she lived in 5B, for two reasons; 1) as long as she doesn't bother anybody, I could give a shit what her profession is, and 2) it's not something that you bring up in casual conversation.
What is Cecile's appearance, you ask? Surprisingly, the first year that she lived in 5B I only saw her with makeup on twice that I can recall. She normally wore a conservative one piece suit at the pool, and inordinately bulky shorts and shirts when in the exercise room. In the hallway or going to and from the lobby she almost always had on pants and a long sleeve shirt. In public, she usually had her long, shimmering, brown hair in a bun, and usually wore clunky black glasses, although I was quite sure that she had 20-20 eyesight (the lenses looked like plain glass). She obviously made a great effort to disguise her natural beauty when not interacting with clients; however, there was no way possible for her to disguise her magnificence completely.
Cecile has an almost perfect face, massive boobs that even conservative outfits can't hide, and exceedingly long legs with thighs that any artist would love to try to replicate on canvas or in stone; and an ass commensurate with her sculptured thighs. She's almost six feet tall and slim, though definitely not too skinny.
My relationship with Cecile was pleasant, if not friendly, the first year that she lived in 5B. We knew each other's first and last names, would always smile and say hello if we passed each other, we had more than a few fluff conversations when working out or at the pool, and the one time that we ran into each other at the local Kroger we had a five minute discussion about how best to cook and serve organic vegetables; she was a real health nut, not only as it related to exercise, but food too. Things changed one Thursday about one in the afternoon – a day that Jaime was out of town, to return Friday about 6:00 p. m.
* * * * * *
I was leaving 5A to make one of my twice weekly short jaunts to my hardware manufacturing facility when I heard yelling and banging in 5B; that was highly unusual especially since the condo units have excellent sound insulation. I listened at the door and didn't like what I heard; it sounded like a guy was pummeling a woman. I banged on the door and said "Superintendent; open up."
It got quiet for a few seconds, although I thought that I heard sobbing. Then a deep male voice said through the door "Get lost, we don't need anything."
"Open the fucking door or I call the cops," I replied when I still heard the sobbing.
A big guy flung the door open and yelled "It's none of your fucking business now get the fuck away from my girlfriend and me..." He was going to say something more, but when I saw Cecile on the ground and what I thought was blood I didn't let him finish. As part of my keychain I have a cheap self-defense tool. I don't even know what it's called, but it is a really hard piece of plastic with a straight section with finger-receiving depressions, two rounded ends that extend past the hand when holding the straight section, and a stump with enlarged head that extends between two fingers.
The obnoxious guy was taller than I was, even though I'm six feet two inches, and probably outweighed me by thirty pounds, so I grasped the tool in my right hand and hit him in the mouth with the enlarged head of the stump as hard as I could. He staggered back as I moved toward him and hit him a second, and then a third time. The third time he tripped over Cecile's prone body, hit his head on her marble foyer floor, and he was out.
I helped Cecile up, led her over to a padded chair, and closed her front door. She had what was going to turn into a black eye, blood coming from her nose, and some scrape marks on an arm and leg. She was dressed in negligee and despite my best efforts to concentrate only on helping her I could not help but notice her phenomenal tits and otherwise fantastic body.
"Are you OK, Cecile?" was my first stupid question. "Can I get you anything?"
"I'm hurting now," she moaned, and then after a deep breath continued "I'll be all right, but can you get me some paper towels for my nose, and a cold compress from the freezer?"
I quickly did as asked, and while she applied the compress to her eye I wiped the blood away from her nose.
"Who is that asshole?" I asked, nodding my head toward the prone bully.
"An enraged client," she mumbled.
"We should really call the police," I said while finishing up on her nose.
"No cops," she quickly replied.
For the next few minutes we went back and forth about calling the police, but it was clear that she didn't want to – undoubtedly because she didn't want to be on their radar for likely being a call girl. I finally relented then said "I've got an idea. I don't want him to think that he can do this again, Do you trust me to take care of him?"
"Yeah – as long as it's not in my condo," she mumbled while she winced – clearly in significant pain.
