The story you are about to read is a continuing work of total and pure fiction. The names do not refer to any actual persons, living or deceased. As a work of fiction, the content is not intended to be considered, viewed or understood as an actual plan or attempt to commit the deeds described. This work is designed for the reading pleasure of consenting adults and should not be read if the idea of non-consensual sexual contacts offend.
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Having 'set the scene" at Miss Ramada's apartment, I needed to find another task to occupy my mind for the remainder of the day. She would not return from school until nearly 5:00pm and I wanted to be in position to observe everything but did not want to take up that position this early in the day.
I took a long run through the park (it has always amazed me at how effortlessly I can travel at a mile-crunching lope through meadow, field and woodland…I'd often wondered if there was something genetic involved here…the glimmer of a werewolf even passed through my mind more than once in my young life) and wound up near the basement entrance to the building in which Dr. and Mrs. Whitman resided. Mrs. Whitman, as you will remember, was serving as president of the board of school directors when I was enduring my high school years. Her husband is a gynecologist and head of the OB-GYN department at the local hospital. The hospital is closely associated with the university and serves as a teaching hospital for university medical students. I add this particular detail because I learned, through my research and observation, that Dr. Whitman was doing quite a bit of after-hours gynecological study on a few of the university students placed under his tutelage. I often wondered if being a gynecologist would totally sate one's curiosity about the feminine sex organ. While I am convinced that the old saying, "If you've seen one, you've seen them all" is most certainly not descriptive of my personal reaction to women's genitalia, I did wonder if the opposite effect could be felt by such doctors. Perhaps, after seeing so many vaginas up-close and personal, a doctor absolutely needed to see more and more and more. I have often sensed that if I were faced with this predicament, that is precisely what I would experience. I think I would never be satisfied until I had seen every shape, color, size and texture of pussy that this world has to offer. Ahh, but that is another story altogether.
Entrance to the Whitman's condominium was so easily obtained that it was truly laughable. I had spent many days and evenings here while the Whitmans jetted off to Europe or South America or someplace else to shed themselves of their wealth. I drank their wine, ate their gourmet foodstuffs and watched their immense-screen TV, all without their knowledge or permission. And I loved it!
Mrs. Whitman was very conservative in her choices in lingerie. I had searched her bedroom quite often. White, white, white and more white. Every bra, every pair of panties - conservative white cotton, or dress-up white nylon - every nightie in every closet and drawer was white. Oh, there were a few that might be called 'ivory' but I am not certain that this was the original color or if they were simply old and well worn. There were no teddies, no lacy thongs, no textured stockings, no garter belts - nothing to indicate the woman had a libido at all.
Today, however, I did locate two items of clothing that did not fit the pattern: a strapless, demi-cup bra in black lace that I found tucked in the very back corner of one of her dresser drawers, and a pair of black panties, not a thong, but very high-cut in the thigh and made almost entirely of lace - front and back. I simply had not gone to the lengths of investigating corners in the past. I searched her closet and located a strapless, low-necked black sheath dress that the bra and panties most likely had been bought to wear with. The dress, too, had been hung on the very last hanger in the far, far left corner of her walk-in closet almost as if it, too, was being hidden. I held the dress to my nose and inhaled her perfume and knew immediately what I was going to do. I removed the dress, hanger and all, and took the bra and panties set from its hiding place in the drawer. I bundled them both into a plastic bag retrieved from the drawer in the kitchen where a dozen or more such grocery bags resided, waiting for trash night. While the entire plan of what I was going to do with this outfit had not made itself clear, sufficient details popped into my head and allowed me to see Mrs. Whitman in my hideaway, chained to a wall, wearing her black ensemble. The picture was not complete, though, and I rummaged on the floor of the closet until I came up with a pair of dusty, black, ankle-strap pumps with higher-than-average heels. I knew in an instant that these were the crowning glory of the outfit and stuffed them into the bag as well.
Smiling to myself, I wandered through the apartment, making certain not to disturb anything else that would announce my having been here. As I moved into the den, I noticed a set of books that had been moved since the last time I had been here. The complete works of Shakespeare in 27 blue-and-gold leather bindings was now pushed to the far left of the shelf from where it had always been . Next to it, on the right, was a black leather box-like container that filled perhaps 18 inches of space at the far right of the shelf. I moved over to investigate and noticed that the top of the box was hinged and could be lifted to reveal the contents. I did so and discovered a collection of videotapes. Each cassette had been labeled with a white sticker on the edge. On each sticker, there was a date. I looked over the dates and learned that the series had begun in December, two years ago. The latest date recorded was just yesterday.
