Susan

byBOSTONFICTIONWRITER©

When I write a story about someone, usually, I change their name so that those reading the story and who know me will not recognize who it is I am writing about. Only, this time, I cannot change her name. This time, I need to tell my story, her story, about Susan. Hopefully, by telling this story, it will rid me of the desire for her and maybe help someone else who is experiencing a similar, abnormal attraction to someone.

Maybe, part of me hopes that she is out there somewhere and reads this story, which is why perhaps I do not want to change her name. Maybe, part of me hopes that she contacts me, again. Yet, even if I did change her name, she would recognize herself in the story by the location and the other detail elements that I mention. Moreover, I know she is out there living in Rhode Island somewhere still, married or divorced. I do not know.

Susan left such an impression on me for so long that if she was to call me today, I would be at her door, again. Some women leave you with no self-respect. Some women have such a hold on you that you can never let go of them for fear of abandoning any hope that they still love you, if they ever did.

She had a dangerous hold on me. Normally, I am not the jealous type but she brought that emotion out in me. Back then, if she told me to kill someone, I may have. She made me blind with desire for her. She made me forget that I was married with children. She was my devil and I had a devil of a time with her. I was powerless in her spell. She was a drug and I was addicted to her.

I think she loved me in her own way, that is, if she could love anyone other than herself, then she loved me, at least, I thought she loved me. Maybe, she just used me. I would like to think that she loved me and still thinks of me today wondering where I am now.

I am sure that all of us know someone like Susan. Was there a woman who you pined over for years after it was over? Truly, I loved her and, had I thought that I had a chance with her, would have left my wife. Yet, deep down, I knew she was not sincere and, deep down, I knew she was using me. I found out later that I was not the only one, too. She had a handful of men who she manipulated and toyed with their emotions using their lustful desire for her against them.

They were her ticket to the fast life buying her drinks, giving her drugs, buying her gifts, taking her out to dinner, paying her bills, and going away on weekend trips. I never figured she needed the money but her father cut her off from the family fortune when he found out that she was hooked on cocaine. It was her mother who paid her high monthly rent for her fashionable apartment in Back Bay. Fortunately, one night, she revealed herself to me and I was able to break the hold that she had over me and pull myself away from her, leave her behind, and remove her from my thoughts. Still, here I am 20 years later, writing her story.

Never in my life have I ever experienced anything like that, like her. Never in my life do I ever want to experience anything like that, like her, again. The emotion that she brought out in me was sick and demented. It was a cult love. If you have not experienced that kind of twisted attraction for someone, then you will never understand what it is that I am writing about. Yet, for those of you who have experienced that deep desire for someone, someone who you would do anything to be with, someone who used you knowing that they had you wrapped around their finger, then you know what I am writing about.

I met Susan when I applied for the job of a Controller for a furrier on Newbury Street in Boston. You would have to be a Bostonian to love Newbury Street. With its wide sidewalks and expensive boutiques, hair salons, upscale clothing, and jewelry stores, Newbury Street is Boston's version of Beverly Hills Rodeo Drive. The sidewalks are full of people every day from 9am to 9pm.

Parking on Newbury Street is impossible. Many double park risking the Boston Traffic Department tickets from the meter maid. I found a way to get around the parking meters, tokens, Chucky Cheese tokens, worked wonders. Now, I do not know if they still work because Boston recently installed those new digital meters but back in the late '80's early '90's, one 25 cent Chucky Cheese token gave me the full two hours on the meter, instead of the allotted fifteen minutes, that would have cost $2.00. Sometimes, the Chucky Cheese token jammed the parking meter completely allowing me to park all day for one 25 cent Chucky Cheese token; that is, until the meter maid got wise and chalked the tires.

I laughed thinking about the Boston Traffic Department opening up the meter expecting quarters only to find brass colored Chucky Cheese tokens. They must have been looking for me for years because I used them for years saving myself thousands of dollars in parking fees. Yes, thousands of dollars. You figure 40 hours a week parking at a buck an hour multiplied by five days a week, 52 weeks a year and 10 years parking on that street, less, of course, the $1.00 a day that it cost me in Chuck Cheese tokens. I saved about $17,150 over a ten year period.

Anyway, I digress, back to the story. Susan was the receptionist at the furrier. She was one of those women who made your jaw drop. You could not remove your stare from her. She looked like a dead ringer for Katherine Ross of The Graduate fame only better looking. Only, she had the personality of Loni Anderson, smart, confident, funny, and quick witted.

She was Italian and came from money. I found out later that her father was in construction and they lived in a big mansion in Rhode Island off Narragansett Bay. It did not occur to me that little Susan was the daughter of a significant Mafioso, but she was. Still, even if I knew back then that she was connected with the mob through her father; I still would have not veered away from her. With her lush raven hair, big mahogany brown eyes, olive complexion, and a body to make any man swoon, she was intoxicatingly beautiful.

We struck up a friendship, going out to lunch a couple times a week, and arranging to meet for dinner and/or drinks after work, once in a while. I was in love with her. She was special. College educated, she was very personable. Only, she had a boyfriend, lots of boyfriends, I found out later, and I was married. Besides, she was eight years younger than me.

To most guys, the age difference is a turn on but for me, it bothered me. We were from different times. She was 28-years-old and I was 36-years-old. That's not a huge age difference to some but she was a young 28-year-old who loved the nightlife and I was a mature 36-year-old who appreciated going home after working all day, instead of going out clubbing until dawn. Still, I could not get enough of her. I thought about her every minute of every day and dreamed about her at night.

Still, I was her boss and with sexual harassment laws just coming more into play and being enforced, I did not want to risk losing my job. It was a good job with a big salary. Nonetheless, she flirted with me constantly and I was flattered by her attention.

We had been working together for nearly two years when, one day, she called in sick. I did not think anything of it until she called me again in the afternoon asking me to stop by after work for coffee. It was a weird conversation. I had never been to her apartment and, actually, had never been alone with her. We were always out and about in public. So, this was more like a date than a quick lunch or a drink after work.

When I arrived at her apartment, she seemed a bit nervous and disoriented, acting like she had been drinking. I chalked it up to her cold medication, too much Robitussin, I figured. She said she was feeling better and wanted some company. It hindsight, I think she had been popping pills or taking cocaine.

Filled with my lustful desire and active imagination, I headed over to Susan's apartment promptly at 5pm, as soon as the boutique closed. I imagined having sex with her. Hey, I'm a guy. Guys think about sex 24/7, especially when you are young like I was, back then. She lived on Beacon Street, just a couple streets over, less than a 10 minute walk away, which I made in 5 minutes.

When I got there, it was obvious that she was not sick but just wanted to take off the day. She looked radiant. We chatted over coffee while sitting on her couch listening to music. Suddenly, she leaned over and kissed me, French kissed me. Her kiss blanked my mind making me forget my name, the time of day, and that I was married with children. Now, I have been kissed many times before but never like this. We guys maintain a list in our heads, ranking them by numbers, of all the women we have ever been with and Susan was a bullet to the top hitting the number one best kisser ever, still, even to this day.

We kissed and kissed until my lips were sore but I did not care. I loved making out with Susan. Then, when she allowed me to feel her D cup breasts and her firm round ass, well, she had me. I was hooked on her. We guys are so easy. Yet, that was as far as it went, at least, for a long while. She was big on kissing and allowing me to feel her up but that was it. Over the next few months, we had plenty of these make out sessions but it was so bittersweet. I found being with her very frustrating. Never would she reach down and feel my cock through my pants and never would she allow me to remove any of her clothes.

It was torture and torment. She toyed with my emotions.

It was two years after I left that job that Susan called me from out of the blue.

That story, unfortunately, is erotic and hot and is for another category and another day. Stay tuned for Susan Ch. 02.

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