Chapter 17

I recently broke up with my on again, off again girlfriend and moved into an apartment. Well, not all that recently. It’s been a while now I guess. I was renting a nice little house on the other side of town when I met her. She moved in with me, for the third time, when we got back together. But we could only stand to live together for four months before we started getting on each other’s nerves, again.

She’s a beautiful young woman with a warm personality and a lot to offer. We had a few things in common and we were perfect for each other in bed. But we were not perfect for each other out of bed.

For one thing she drinks too much. She loves to go out and party. She’d go out drinking and dancing every night if she could. And she isn’t real careful about what kind of drugs she puts into her pretty much perfect body.

I didn’t mind smoking a little pot now and then when I was in college. Not too often. I seem to be particularly susceptible to its effects unlike some of my friends who insist they can drive even better after smoking a joint. Two or three good hits and I’m wasted. My drug of choice is Michelob or a nice glass of red wine, preferably French. My ex would just as soon snort a little white powder or swallow any pill some strange guy in a bar hands her.

I like to go out now and then. But to be honest, I’d rather go out for a nice meal in a quiet restaurant. It isn’t that I don’t like to have fun and dance now and then. I just don’t like loud, smoky places. I enjoy conversation and breathable air.

We tried to accommodate each other. But finally, we both came to realize no matter how hot the sex is we were never going to be right for each other.

We’re still friends. I let her have the house and furniture. I even let her keep the large flat screen television I just bought. All I took with me when I moved out was my clothes, my books and my music. There weren’t any hard feelings when I left. We parted by mutual agreement. She even kissed me goodbye when I left and wished me luck.

I found a nice enough furnished apartment nearer to where I work. To make the place a little more comfortable I picked up a few pieces of decent furniture at a good price from a furniture store which was going out of business and I bought another television. For the next couple of months I enjoyed the peace and quiet of being alone and the absence of yard work.

I frequent one of the apartment’s two pools on nice evenings and weekends. They have one pool designated for adults only. There are no screaming kids running around like crazy and the girls wear skimpier bikinis. That’s always a good thing.

Over time I met a few of my neighbors. There are a couple of young guys living across the hall and a couple doors down from me. We sometimes watch a game together on the weekend. I’ve always suspected they’re gay but I don’t give a damn about that. It isn’t any of my business.

They’re friendly and intelligent and I enjoy their company. I think it’s too bad we live in a repressed, intolerant society that forces them to hide it. That’s just another of the many harmful side effects of religion. But our species has been superstitious since he crawled out of the primordial slime. I suppose we always will be.

The only real drawback to my new, quieter lifestyle is that while living with my ex I became accustomed to a steady diet of very hot sex. Masturbation is fine. But it goes without saying it’s no substitute for the real thing. Or at least it would have gone without saying if I hadn’t said it.

There are a few single girls at work who have caught my eye. I’ve thought about asking them out. And the company doesn’t have any rules against fraternization. But I’m not unaware of the pitfalls that make office romances so dangerous and I have every intention of avoiding them.

They pay me very well where I work and I seem to be advancing rapidly. I don’t want to jeopardize the very generous paycheck they seem perfectly happy to give me.

But it isn’t just about the money. I did a lot of research on the companies which were showing an interest in me before I graduated from college. I chose the company I went to work for over many far more lucrative offers for a reason. They didn’t just offer me a paycheck and benefits. They were offering me a chance to use my mind, to be innovative, to think outside the box.

It has been a good choice. I don’t want to blow it by engaging in disruptive affairs with co-workers. I have quickly earned a good reputation and I intend to maintain it.

That’s why I decided to attend the lame mixer the apartment complex hosted at the pool. There are more than a few hot single girls living in this apartment complex. I figured it was time to meet some of them and see if I could get a phone number or two in the process.

It turned out to be exactly as I described it, lame. As you might expect, it was attended by at least twice as many guys as girls. I did manage to meet a few girls. I even got a couple of numbers.

But I couldn’t help noticing this quiet young woman who kept to herself, blushed furiously whenever anyone so much as looked in her direction, and rebuffed every guy who approached her. Watching her that day I felt sorry for her. She acted like she thought she was being attacked by a pack of wolves that hadn’t eaten in a week.

She was obviously very shy and very uptight. She wore a modest two piece bathing suit that looked like it must be a hand-me-down from her mother. Over it she wore the ultimate cover up. She might as well have come fully dressed.

It was obvious she was very conflicted. She screwed up her courage enough to attend the mixer. She wants to meet someone. But she’s so painfully shy she can’t bring herself to even talk to anyone.

She looked like a real mouse. But if you look closer you can see that she looks that way on purpose. It was obvious she could have been very attractive with a little work on her wardrobe and her self-esteem.

She only stayed for about thirty or forty minutes before she retreated to her apartment. I watched her go. I was surprised to see she lives in my building. I couldn’t recall seeing her before.

She fascinated me from the time she showed up at the mixer. I couldn’t stop watching her. I didn’t even start talking to anyone else until she left. I almost went over and tried to talk to her. I was very curious about her. But I knew it wouldn’t do any good. She had to be the shiest girl I’ve ever seen.

There was something about her, though. Damned if I know what it was. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I stayed around for some weak punch and some weak conversation. I met a few girls and I talked sports, cars, and girls with a few guys. I stayed for about an hour after shy girl left and then I went back to my place. But even after she left I couldn’t get her out of my mind and I don’t know why.

It would have been an unremarkable afternoon, except for what happened next.

When I got back to my building it was quiet. Most of the people who live there are single. Most of them were still out at the pool. The thing that changed two lives that afternoon was that when I entered my building the mail carrier was in the vestibule, stuffing mail in the boxes.

I waited around for him to finish putting the mail out. We talked a little while I was waiting. He’s not the most discreet mail carrier I’ve ever met. He was putting a small parcel in one of the boxes. He chuckled, looked at me and said, “This gal gets more mail from distributers of sexual paraphernalia than anyone else on my route. She must be some kind of sex maniac.”

He rolled the small, padded envelope up to show me that it contained a vibrator. In that moment I lost a lot of respect for him. But I thought I should keep my eye out to see who picks mail up from that box. She and I seem to have something in common. We’re both supplying our own orgasms. Granted, that isn’t something upon which to base a relationship. I couldn’t just go up to her and say, ‘I’m horny, too. Ya wanna?’

But it wouldn’t hurt to keep it in mind.

Before he closed the boxes the carrier said, “She got a pair of handcuffs last week. I keep hoping she’ll get a parcel she has to sign for so I can take it to her door and see what she looks like.”

The jerk finally left and I checked my mail. I was standing there sorting out the junk mail at the recycle bin management is kind enough to supply when the mousy girl from the pool came down and checked her mail. She blushed when she saw me. I didn’t speak but I smiled and nodded.

She looked away. I realized she didn’t mean to be rude. She’s just so painfully shy she can’t even look me in the eyes.

I was shocked to discover she’s the recipient of the vibrator. I watched her open her mailbox. She saw the parcel and her face went from pink to dark red instantly. It was amusing to watch.

I finished throwing my junk mail into the bin and I followed her to the elevator. We rode up together without speaking. I got off on the second floor. She continued up to her apartment on the third floor.

That should have been the end of it. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Over the next couple of weeks I seemed to see her all the time. I suppose I must have seen her coming and going before and never paid any attention to her. Now I can’t help noticing her. She’s always dressed more conservatively than my grandmother. She never speaks to anyone. She never looks anyone in the eye.

She isn’t my type. That’s for sure. But for some reason I can’t get her out of my mind. One day I was on the phone with my brother. He’s a psychologist working at a hospital in D.C...

We don’t see each other very often. But we talk on the phone about once a month or so. I don’t know what caused me to mention her. But for some reason I told him about her. I mentioned the things I learned about her from the mail carrier and he suggested she was probably raised by strict, verbally abusive parents and had no self-esteem.

I mentioned how she wouldn’t let anyone near her and described her behavior at the mixer. My brother said girls like her are in danger.

When I asked why he explained that because of the way they’ve been brought up they’re very vulnerable. They’re susceptible to abusive people like her father probably was. She’s vulnerable to men who’ll tell her what to do. She probably lives in a fantasy world in which men abuse and humiliate her. Abuse and love are all mixed up in her mind. She craves that kind of treatment. But she’s too shy to go out and find someone to treat her that way.

It was his off the cuff opinion, admittedly based on almost no information, that it’s unlikely she’ll ever change without some serious counseling.

I’m embarrassed to admit it. But when my brother was giving me his impromptu diagnosis of my mousy neighbor I started to get ... I don’t know. Not aroused exactly. Maybe interested in the possibilities is the best way of putting it. That doesn’t speak well of me I know. But I couldn’t help letting my mind wander to where my brother’s off the cuff analysis of my neighbor just naturally led.

I’ve never treated any member of the opposite sex with anything but respect. I’ve never even considered it. I wasn’t raised that way. But I sometimes read stories on the internet when I’m bored. Stories that have turned me on, much to my surprise. Many of them are stories about females being victimized by men who found themselves with some sort of contrived opportunity to take advantage of a situation which put those men in a position of authority over the women.

These weren’t the hard corps rape stories. The women weren’t tortured in the stories that turned me on. And they usually came to enjoy their abuse. What the hell, it’s just fantasy. What does it hurt? Right?

I’ve masturbated to these fantasies on occasion. I never considered living out one of them. But now I began to wonder.

I thought about waiting for her downstairs after work some day and seeing what would happen if I tried to order her around. One afternoon, not long after that conversation with my brother, we met at the mailboxes again. I almost ordered her to follow me to my apartment. But I didn’t. I wanted to. But I didn’t have the balls.

Later that day I was eating my supper and listening to some quiet music. This was almost a month after the mixer. In that time I’d gone out to dinner with one of the girls I met there that day. She was cute. But she was a total airhead.

I got together with another of the girls I met at the mixer for drinks after work. As soon as I found out she loves Rush Limbaugh I knew we had nothing in common. So my sex life still consisted of quick dates with mother thumb and her four daughters.

I began thinking about the mouse again. I think I was becoming fixated. I don’t even know her name! I just know I spend a lot of time thinking about what it seems are our shared fantasies. I imagined the blush on her face as she undressed in front of me. I wondered if she has ever had sex with a real live man. I even began to wonder what she’s like as a person!

I may not know her name. But thanks to our indiscreet mail carrier I know her apartment number. I decided on a test. I wrote a short note on an index card. It said, “I will be at your apartment at ten o’clock Saturday morning. Be standing in your foyer. You are to be fully dressed. Stand with your back to the door. Be prepared to obey my every command. Wear a blindfold and have handcuffs attached to your left wrist. Leave your door open exactly one inch.”

I put the card in an envelope and dropped it in the mail on the way to work the next morning. That was Tuesday. I didn’t see her again until we met at the mailboxes on Friday after work. I avoided giving her more than a casual glance. I didn’t want to give her any reason to suspect I mailed that card to her.

I stood at the recycle can going through my mail and weeding out the junk. As I did I watched her out of the corner of my eye. I wondered where she works. She looks like she must be either a librarian or a school teacher. Her wardrobe and her manner just scream spinster school teacher.

She blushed when she saw me. She still wouldn’t meet my gaze. I wondered for a moment if she has ever in her life looked anyone in the eyes. I had the impression that afternoon that she seemed more skittish than normal but that may have been just my imagination.

She grabbed her mail and rushed to the elevator while I was still disposing of junk mail. I watched her as the elevator doors closed and wondered what was going through her mind. And I wondered the same thing I’ve been wondering all week. Will her door be open an inch tomorrow morning?

I couldn’t stop thinking about her that evening. I knew that the chances were just about slim and none that she’d be waiting for me as I ordered in my note. But even so I couldn’t keep my mind from exploring the possibilities for pleasure if I found her waiting there tomorrow morning with her door open.

I watched a little news and ate my supper. I checked my email and read a few more stories. There are a couple of authors whose stories I particularly enjoy. The idea that I might actually be living out something very much like some of the fantasies those writers post kept me awake late into the night.

I awoke Saturday morning and took a shower. I dressed and had coffee. I tried to read the paper but I couldn’t concentrate. I sipped my coffee and stared blankly at my patio doors. I wondered what she’s thinking at that moment and how well she slept last night.

I spent the next couple of hours doing what I always do on Saturday morning. I cleaned up my apartment and did a few loads of laundry. I don’t like doing housework. Who does? But I was glad for the distraction this morning. It took my mind off of how slowly the hands on the clock are moving. It began to seem like time was standing still. I chuckled to myself when I realized that I’ve never been this anxious before a date before. And this is a date that’s almost certainly all in my mind!

I’m all but certain I’ll get to her apartment at the appointed time and the door will be tightly closed. That will be the end of that. But at least I’ll be able to get on with my real life then. My fascination with the mouse upstairs is probably very unhealthy. I know my brother would be very disappointed if he found out what I’ve done and the things I have planned for my little mouse if she actually follows my instructions.

I forced myself to wait until two minutes before the hour. I wore a pair of tennis shoes and walked softly so she won’t hear me coming down the carpeted hallway.

I arrived at the door to her apartment at exactly ten o’clock and a sudden furious rush of adrenalin raced through my body. Her door is open exactly one inch!

I didn’t even hesitate. I have to assume she’s a lot more nervous than I am. I have a pretty good idea how much nerve it must have taken for that painfully shy woman to leave her door open for me.

I know, too, that if I dawdle she’ll almost certainly come to her senses very quickly. Sanity will return and she’ll close her door. That would be the end of it.

I pushed her door open quietly. She’s standing three feet away with her back to me. I heard her sudden intake of breath when I opened her door. I can sense that she’s as excited as I am. I can also sense her fear. I want to assure her I don’t intend to harm her. But somehow I know that would be a mistake. She needs that fear.

I closed her door firmly. She flinched slightly at the sound of her door closing. But she remained in place. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

She’s dressed the way she always dresses except that she’s wearing a blindfold and has a pair of handcuffs dangling from her wrist. She’s wearing a dowdy dress that extends halfway down her calves.

Her shoes are a pair of nondescript flats. That’s probably all she owns. She’s wearing stockings, probably pantyhose.

Her dark blonde hair is cut short. I think most men have a preference for long hair on a woman. I always have. But the style suits her. It looks good on her. It compliments her face. She has a pretty face and a very nice figure. It’s hard to believe a young woman this attractive can suffer from such low self-esteem. She must have really been beaten down when she was growing up. It’s a shame.

I suddenly found myself wondering what her voice sounds like. I can’t remember ever hearing her speak.

I walked around her slowly. I stopped in front of her and looked at her face. Her quick, nervous breathing seems loud in the small entryway. I can almost taste her fear.

In a firm but calm, quiet tone of voice I said, “Don’t move.”

I wondered for a moment if she might recognize my voice. But then I remembered she has never heard me speak, either.

She startled noticeably when I spoke. But she didn’t move. I reached out my hand and traced the line of her cheek below the blindfold. She gasped when my finger touched her. But still she didn’t move.

In a quiet voice, with more confidence than I really feel, I said, “I’ve been watching you. I’m going to change you.”

I went around behind her again. She’s still holding her wrists together as if both cuffs are already attached. I placed the dangling cuff around her right wrist and fastened it, careful not to make it too tight.

When she felt the other handcuff close over her wrist to render her helpless her entire body shuddered. I’m not sure if it was fear, excitement, or some combination. I imagine it was equal parts of both.

I placed my fingers around the back of her neck and guided her through the tiny foyer into her living room. The room is clean and neat. It’s furnished just like all the other apartments I’ve visited in this building. Management obviously buys furniture in bulk.

Her balcony looks slightly larger than mine and has a better view of the pool. I imagine she must spend a lot of time looking out there, watching her neighbors having a good time around the pool, everyone but her.

I left her standing in the middle of the room and went down the hallway to her bedroom. I remembered what the mail carrier said. I’m curious to see what kind of toy collection she has accumulated.

I opened the drawers in her nightstand. They’re both full of vibrators, fake cocks, butt plugs, and various other toys, including a selection of restraints and several styles of nipple clamps. It’s an impressive collection and it told me a lot about her fantasies. I’ll have to spend more time going through it later.

I looked in her closet. It contains only more of the same ultraconservative outfits she always wears, a pair of tennis shoes and two pairs of plain, black flats. I looked through her dresser. In the third drawer I opened I was surprised to find a selection of very sexy lingerie. But everything else is more typical of her mouse persona.

I went back out to the living room. I stood in front of her and said, “I was planning to tear your clothes off. I thought that would be exciting. But on second thought, I think I’d like to watch you undress for me. Where is the handcuff key? I’ll be in charge of that from now on.”

Before she could respond I said, “You realize you belong to me now, don’t you? This isn’t going to be just a casual sexual encounter. I’m taking possession of you. You’re going to become my hobby.”

She didn’t answer. It looks like she’s about to lose her balance. I can actually see her knees shaking even though they’re covered by that god-awful dress.

She turned an even darker shade of red and finally managed to nod her head. Then she tried to tell me where to look for the key. Her voice broke. She had to clear her throat and finally she whispered, “The key is on the counter by the phone.”

I picked up the key and moved around behind her. Before I unlocked the handcuffs I said, “I’m going to take these off until you’ve finished undressing. Leave the blindfold in place. I’ll take it off when I’m ready.”

She trembled and whispered, “Yes, sir.”

I unlocked the cuffs and placed them on the counter. She rubbed her wrists for a moment and then stood still with her arms at her sides.

I sat down on the couch in front of her and made myself comfortable. In a firm voice I demanded, “Take your clothes off now. Take your time. I want to enjoy this.”

She reached behind her back and struggled with the zipper on her dress. She had a hell of a time pulling it down. Her hands are shaking like crazy.

While she was struggling with her zipper I asked, “How many men have you had sex with?”

She stopped what she’s doing for a moment and stuttered, “N-n-none! I’ve never...! I mean...”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. I know she doesn’t have a hymen. Not with all of those sex toys in her bedroom. But it’s still hard to believe in this day and age that a heterosexual woman in her twenties has never been with a man.

I asked, “How old are you?”

She whispered, “Twenty-three, sir.”

Now I know her age and her sexual history. But I still don’t know her name!

I watched as she finally managed to lower the zipper and stood there in front of me looking like she’s going to pass out from fright. I would have loved to remove that blindfold so I could see her eyes. But I didn’t. I don’t know how I know it. But I’m certain she needs that blindfold right now.

I almost snapped at her to hurry up. I’m uncharacteristically impatient to see her body. But only two minutes ago I told her to take her time. And I have to admit it’s fascinating to watch her, to watch her and imagine what’s going through her mind.

More than the fact that she’s undressing in front of me and it’s the first time she has ever undressed in front of anyone of the opposite sex, the things that are making my cock so hard are her vulnerability, her innocence, and her fear; another set of facts my brother the doctor would no doubt find very disturbing.

I’ve always gravitated toward headstrong, self-assured, confident women. This is a first for me, too. I’m not sure why this woman turns me on as much as she does. But she does. Something about her has been drawing me to her from the very first moment I saw her at the mixer.

I may never know why. Maybe I’ll ask my brother someday. But probably not. If I do I’ll have to admit to him what I did here today. I know he wouldn’t approve. Hell! If some man were to tell me that he had treated a helpless, emotionally crippled woman the way I’m treating this woman I wouldn’t approve!

She finally gathered her courage and allowed her dress to slip off of her shoulders. I half expected that she might be wearing some of those sexy undergarments she obviously ordered from catalogs. I know she doesn’t have the nerve to go into a store and purchase any of those things.

But she isn’t. Her underwear is just what you might expect a woman who dresses the way she does to wear under her unflattering dress. Her bra is a big, thick, over engineered garment designed not to flatter her figure but to conceal it.

She paused again, gathering the courage to slide her dress the rest of the way off. I heard an almost imperceptible moan and finally she let her dress fall to the floor at her feet. She stepped out of it and carefully kicked it out of the way.

She stands before me now in her industrial strength underwear and pantyhose. I’m a bit surprised she isn’t wearing a slip.

She paused once more. This is undoubtedly the hardest thing she has ever done. I have to admire her courage, though. There can’t be many women in the world who have the nerve to do what she’s doing now. She’s undressing for a strange man. And she has no idea who she’s undressing to please. I could be a murderer. I could be sixty-five years old and as fat as a Volkswagen. She doesn’t have a clue as to my identity.

I’m well aware this is her fantasy, too. But still, it has to be incredibly difficult for her to actually go through with it. This is real life. She isn’t lying in her bed in the dark, imagining this while she stimulates herself with a vibrator.

She kicked her shoes off and began to roll her pantyhose down. She nearly lost her balance. But she quickly recovered. She managed to stay on her feet and remove them.

I plan on saving her some trouble in the future. I’m going to order her not to wear those again. I hate them. And anyway, she doesn’t need them. She has perfect legs. They are long and slender; toned and lightly tanned. I guess she spends a lot of time sunning on her balcony because except for that day at the mixer I’ve never seen her at the pool.

She stood before me in just her bra and panties for a moment. The garments themselves are not sexy. But the vivid aura of embarrassment emanating from her is really turning me on. She reached back and struggled with the catch on her bra. While her shaking fingers fought with the clasp I asked, “No other man has ever seen your tits?”

She recoiled as if struck when I used the word tits. But she shook her head and replied quietly, “No, sir.”

She finally got the bra unhooked and released the ends of the straps. It hung loosely in front of her, still covering her breasts. The mixed emotions she’s experiencing are obvious even with her eyes covered. I know she’s terrified. But terror is not her primary response to what’s happening here. The signs are there. She’s just as excited as I am.

That assessment was confirmed when she slowly slid her bra down off of her shoulders and uncovered her incredibly hard nipples.

The red flush that highlighted her embarrassment spread down from her forehead, down her neck and her upper chest and faded away when it reached her perfect breasts. It’s a sin that she’s kept those beautiful things so well covered for so long. They’re breathtaking!

I’m no expert. But I estimate she was wearing a C cup bra. Her breasts are perfectly formed. Her areolae are small and pink. I don’t have to touch them to know her nipples are very, very hard. While they’re not very big around, they seem unusually long. They appear to be more than half an inch long, possibly even three quarters of an inch. They struck me as extremely erotic. I can’t wait to taste them and see how she reacts.

I stared for a long moment. After staring at her tits for a minute or two I said, “Very nice! Those are probably the prettiest tits I’ve ever seen!”

I figure it won’t hurt to start working on her self-esteem. And I’m only being honest.

I leaned forward and picked up her bra. She had dropped it on the floor near my feet. I checked the label. I was right, C cup. They stick straight out from her chest as if she exercises them regularly. I can’t wait to get my hands on them. But that will have to wait. I want to make this last a little longer. The anticipation is exciting for both of us.

Her skin is snow white all over her body except for her lightly tanned legs. It doesn’t look like she ever goes outside. I looked at all of that snow white flesh, untouched by any male, and I thought that she looks just like what she is, a virgin.

She’s probably about five feet, one or two inches tall. I’d guess she doesn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds, if that. She’s very slender. But she certainly isn’t skinny. She has all the right curves in all the right places.