A hard day's work for Francine. From 9 to 5, she suffered the nagging blathering of her boss about the TPS reports, the painful anecdotes of the office dullard, and the tedious computer work that kept her fingers in constant motion at the keyboard.
She got on the M train back to her Brooklyn apartment. She looked at the floor of the train with a blank expression, the bags under her eyes prominent on her face. She wondered what had happened to her. She used to be happy, content with life. Now it was a mundane, repetitive rut.
In her younger years, Francine was a nice and exciting girl. She was the kind of girl who would be the designated driver, but she would also flash people on the highway when she wasn't drive. It wasn't about being sexy, it was about having fun.
And fun she had. Had. Past tense. Now, in her late thirties, her libido had faded. This left her body unkempt. Her breasts were deflating, being 36C at their best, and now lying at 32C. Her skin was becoming pale and veiny, not having the opportunity to spend time under the sun very often.
This is not to say that she was not attractive. Francine was a tall girl. At 5' 10", she was a good volleyball player at her gym. Her brown hair reached the small of her back, and it was still very thick and deep in color despite her age.
She threw her curvy body down onto her bed, still in her business suit. Although she wanted to fall asleep right then and there, she thought it better to change into pajamas. She got up and changed, then went to the kitchen for dinner.
She was grateful that she found a nice apartment, albeit in a bad neighborhood. On the second floor, she owned a tight two room apartment with a small kitchen. To fit the feeling of her cramped and gray home, she threw some top ramen onto the stove.
She turned the TV on and started watching The Real Housewives of...
"Housewife," she thought, "that would be so much better than this. I'd at least have someone to look forward to. Someone to comfort, someone to love, someone to fuck."
Francine had been single for years. Her last boyfriend was a man whore, so she had developed trust issues. Her sex life had been dead ever since. She rarely thought about it, but when she did, the desire was high. Tonight was one of those nights.
She finished her cheap noodles and retreated to her bedroom. She put on some jazz music, and went to her bottom dresser drawer. She pulled out her toy: a little vibrator egg.
Her routine was simple: shove it in, turn it on, and wait to cum.
Tonight, there was a slight error. The egg slipped out while she had dozed off from exhaustion. The orgasm never came.
**********
While she slumbered so early into the night, a storm started to brew. It was an hour into her sleep when the storm became powerful. The trees were bending in the wind, the rain beating hard on the windows.
In the other room of Francine's apartment, a large tree stood close to the window. Though it was large, one branch was rather weak. It broke at the top of the tree, and crashed through the window. Francine remained unconscious.
From the sidewalk, a man saw the window break open. He was far from his home, and needed to go somewhere. He jumped at the opportunity. The man climbed into the tree and jumped in through the window. He found a completely empty room. Aware of the time of night, he waited before walking out of the room. It was cold, and glass was all over the floor.
After enough time had passed, the man crept out into the hallway. He closed the door behind him and saw an apartment decorated with useless little trinkets. He thought this was too good to be true.
The man began to stuff his pockets with the little things; souvenirs from other countries and expensive luxury decorations. He found himself in the main room where a couch was. He would have loved to lie down, but he wasn't certain that he'd go unseen. So he went to the second hallway of the small living space.
It was decorated with many broadway posters, some signed. He tip-toed down the hall as quietly as he could. The floor underneath the carpet was creaking, but not very loudly.
He finally arrived at the door and put his ear up to it. He saw no lights shining under the door, but he still needed to check. He heard no movement, and no snoring. But there was a weak buzzing noise, like something was vibrating. Probably a massager or something, he thought.
He kept listening, and the buzzing persisted. Still, there was no other movement, no other sound. "You know what? Fuck it. Not like the cops can find me so easy in this fucking storm." He carefully opened the door.
The door creaked ever so slightly, and when there was no reaction from within, he felt it was safe. It was very dark, and he couldn't see too well. The buzzing was now louder. He was sure that nobody was home, and he stepped inside. Then the first strike of lightning presented itself.
The duration of the flash was just long enough for the man to notice one thing: there was a woman in the room, and she was asleep. Not only was she asleep, she was naked. He still didn't know the source of the buzzing, but now he was convinced that it was a vibrator.
He stood in the middle of the room in shock, the sight of the woman having surprised him. This went on through a few more strikes of lightning, assuring him that it was real; no illusion. Her breasts were bare, her legs too, and a vibrator egg between her legs, buzzing on without doing its work.
The situation finally resonated with the man. He had entered a random apartment, and now there was a sleeping naked woman in front of him who evidently fell asleep during masturbation. It was still too good to be true. Even better than before. There was no way he would be caught, thanks to this storm. It was dark, it was loud because of rain and thunder, and it would be easy to slip away. He didn't even live in Brooklyn.
