It was another cold, windy night in Boston. Fortunately, there was no snow tonight; there was only the harsh wind, half-frozen sidewalks, and icy streets. Just as fortunately, Brigitte Spencer's 2003 Oldsmobile Aurora had brand-new winter studs and the heat still worked. Walking into the darkened condo after a long day of typing up reports from half-finished notes, the twenty-eight-year-old romantic advice columnist for the Boston Globe sighed. Closing the door, she locked and dead-bolted it before walking down the hall into the living room and flipping the lights on. She shrugged her dark-blue fleece overcoat onto the easy chair in the corner and pulled the scrunchie from her fire-red hair. Shaking it out, the beautiful mop of loose curls signifying a recent perm fell to the middle of her back and hung there elegantly.
Pulling the blinds to reveal a wall-to-wall window of inch-thick glass was hardly a romantic event, but the view from that window was. Brigitte lived alone on the twelfth floor and her only real comfort was that she could see a substantial portion of the city from her home. She kicked her Reeboks off as she looked out of the window. The sun had already set despite it being only five-thirty, but that was normal for mid-December and she wasn't complaining; she'd always liked her view of the city better at night than she did during the day. The nocturnal hours were, after all, dark and mysterious; there was much to be imagined about something one could not see -- a strange shadow cast by a yellow streetlight or a gray cat hiding atop a dumpster, for example -- that couldn't have been less interesting in the daytime. She smiled at the thought.
That smile faded quickly, however, for working for one of the largest newspapers in the state (not to mention one of the most famous in the country, right alongside the New York Times and similar papers) had given her deep insight into what else prowled the night. Being faced with almost constant news of potential rapists, murderers, serial killers, violent thieves, and vandals had completely disillusioned the rich little princess as soon as she'd graduated from Bunker Hill Community College. Her father was a hard-nosed reporter himself and had pulled strings to get his charming daughter into the business despite her mother's protests; her mother was an accountant and felt that working for the newspaper (or doing anything else outside the home, for that matter) was far too dangerous for Brigitte.
But she'd been working for the Globe since she was eighteen as a copy girl; the only difference now was that she'd added her own column to the work load. On the plus side, she'd hired Stacie Ritter a year previous and the attractive twenty-five-year-old blonde had worked out quite well; she was good at staying on top of the ball and getting things done quickly. She was bold, too; she'd make a fine reporter someday.
Thoughts of this nature, however, were quickly swept from Brigitte's mind as she walked into the large bathroom and stripped off her nylon stockings. Her pink silk blouse followed them into the hamper seconds later, followed in turn by her short blue miniskirt. Kyle Johnson, her editor, had a habit of stating on a regular basis that he could care less what his employees wore as long as they did their jobs well enough to suit him; what he failed to mention, naturally, was that he -- like all men -- seemed to give her and the other women in the building far better reviews when they dressed like sluts. The man was a pig, but he was a controllable pig.
The long, slender legs unveiled by removal of her miniskirt were athletic in build; she loved to run early in the mornings and she often showed up to work around ten as a result. In truth, it gave her a thrill to feel the cold air brushing her body through the thin fabric of her t-shirt; the fact that her c-cups had never really felt comfortable in a bra made it all the better. That was why she kept her lovely pussy, now revealed as she slipped off her hot-pink thong underwear, shaved: she had only one thing on her mind when she returned to her condo after a morning jog; it involved deft fingers and a smooth entry. Overall, the whole experience gave her the energy and good mood she needed to deal with the cretins that seemed to dominate the Globe.
She filled the massive circular tub with steaming-hot water and dumped in some strongly blueberry-scented bubble bath. From the bathroom, she had an excellent view of the parking lot and the park across the street; she didn't care who saw her naked, so she never bothered to close any windows when she was home. She stood there stark naked as she waited for the bath to get full enough. A number of cars were pulling in below her, most of them people just getting off of work; there were a couple of cars that she didn't recognize -- including a brown Lincoln Continental that seemed to sit in the parking lot with the engine running and cigarette smoke pouring out of the driver's side window forever -- but that was hardly surprising. Boston was a big city.
