I sit in the dark and wait. Patiently I wait. I don't mind, it's just a part of it . . . A part of it all. Not the best part, just a part. And it's what I must do. So I sit and I wait . . . And wait.
Eventually I hear the sound of her car and see the bright headlights blasting into the dark recesses of her home as she pulls along the driveway. She's home. The time has arrived. This waiting is over.
She parks the car and gets out. I watch through the edge of a window, spying on her to make sure she is alone. If she isn't I can slip out the back, quick and quiet like, and just return another night.
But she is alone.
She always is.
She's always alone.
Not for long though . . . Not tonight . . . Not this weekend.
I move away from the window, past her couch and slip up next to the side door, the one facing her driveway . . . the one she always enters. On my way I grab the rag and bottle setting on the end table where I sat them, wetting the cloth with practiced efficiency as I move.
The door swings open and she strolls inside, habitually dropping her briefcase on the little table by the entrance and swinging the door shut before she reaches for the light switch. Before she can turn on the lights though I reach out and grab her . . . Strong and sudden. I wrap one arm around her mid-section, locking my fingers around her arm, and slam the other over her mouth, covering it with the cloth. She tries to scream, even struggle, but her sudden inhalation at being surprised causes the gas to have a rapid effect and soon the struggling weakens as she slips away into dream land.
As she slumps I hold her in my arms and keep her from falling to the floor. I bend over and scoop her into my arms, her small, lithe body easily managed as I carry her through the living room and down the hall to her bedroom.
It's a large room with a couple windows draped with a combination of thick, dark curtains covered by prettier, lacey ones. A big queen sized bed covered by a soft, frilly comforter with large, cushy pillows inside smooth cases occupies the main portion of the room, its strong headboard and four wooden post etched by delicate flowing designs. A big oaken dresser and armoire set against two of the walls and a cushioned armchair with a reading lamp sits against a third. Pictures of doves and puppies decorate all of the walls.
I carry her into the room and to the bed where I lay her down as close to the center as I can manage. I retrieve my bag from where I'd sat it at the hall's entrance in case I'd had to make a quick exit and return to the room. From the bag I pull the nylon straps that I use and start tying her in place. I raise her arms straight above her head, attaching the nylon to parts of her headboard and making it tight enough to hold her arms while allowing them just a smidgeon of movement. I make sure her elbows can bend a little and she can roll her wrist to help keep some of the blood flowing. Her legs I stretch down and spread open, using the nylon to attach them to either of the bed's foot posts.
When I've finished I turn on the nightstand light and stand over her to admire the view.
She's beautiful . . . Gorgeous . . . Just like the first time I'd saw her. That'd been at the local shopping center. Just six weeks prior. In the early evening.
I saw her walking down one of the home décor isles and my eyes were locked. She was wearing a pink blouse and black skirt that day. Her back to me, the skirt accentuating the delicate roundness of her ass and slithering sensually down to where her nylon encased legs strutted from beneath it just inches above her knees. Those legs had quickly drawn my visual attentions from her beautiful ass down along their toned texture to the high heels on her feet.
Already mesmerized by these things I felt myself being drawn even deeper into her aura as she stopped and turned to inspect an item. Her profile was idyllic. Above her waist the blouse wafted out where her healthy breast protruded from her chest. Higher still, her black hair hung loose and free inches below her shoulders and when she used her fingers to pull some of it behind her ear her beautiful facial features were more than just a mere compliment to the body beneath. I was struck by her resemblance to Cleopatra, or at least some of the images of the Nile Goddess given to us by Hollywood.
Instantly I knew I had found my newest friend . . . My next conquest.
I followed her that evening. First through the store . . . Then to her home . . . Her house . . . Where we were now . . . In her bedroom.
She's dressed almost identical to that night. Upon the bed she lays, her curves accented and displayed by the clothing she wears. Her toned legs held softly within a pair of tan nylons, her feet held in open high heels, a slim strap of leather wrapped around her ankles. The black skirt she is wearing is nearly identical to the one that night, only this one hangs just inches shorter and has a short slit up along the one side. Right now it is crumpled, slightly disheveled, pulled part way up her thighs. Tonight her blouse is white with long sleeves and ruffles down the front. It, too, is in slight disarray. Where the top couple of buttons are undone one flap hangs messily to the side while the opposite flap is stretched tight and flat from the crumpling of the garment under her back. Still, her breasts rise and fall under the garment as she softly breathes in her induced slumber.
Her black hair is still the same length and I quietly thank her for not having gotten it cut short between that night and this. It is splayed upon the pillow beneath her head, strands spread here and there, the whole of it cupping and brightly displaying her face with her now closed eyes and delicate lips that are parted in just a bare slit.
Yes, she is beautiful.
Now the waiting begins again. The waiting for the gas to wear off enough for me to rouse her and bring her to a point of consciousness where she will be able to fully comprehend what is happening. I know that this is at least twenty minutes away . . . possibly thirty.
I have already waited, so a little more time won't be a problem. I've waited six weeks . . . Six weeks . . . Ever since that evening at the store.
After I followed her home I started my research on her while I continued to follow her through the next days and weeks. I learned her name, Ivy Brown, and where she worked, a corporate office downtown where she was some kind of executive. I learned her comings and goings and her other habits. I learned that every Tuesday evening she visited that same shop and every Friday she worked late then went out for dinner with one or two co-workers. But best of all I learned that she lived alone . . . All alone. No husband, she'd been divorced seven months prior. No children, part of the reason for the divorce. No pets, no cats, dogs or even fish. Even better than this fact was that after her Friday night dinner she always got home late, after dark during this time of year, and rarely went anywhere else until leaving for work Monday morning.
In addition to this, she'd only bought this house in the country after the divorce and didn't know any of the neighbors very well.
The house itself was also another idyllic stroke of luck. It sat way back off the road with more than a dozen trees blocking most of the view. The nearest neighbor lived nearly half a mile away too, so it was easy for me to sneak around without being spotted accidentally by someone outside watering their porch plants. Also, between her road and the one a block behind it was a thick swath of woods that touched both of the end roads so I was able to approach her place without any witnesses as well.
Actually, looking at all of this, I almost thought the woman was asking for me to pay her a visit.
