An Evening Home - Alone? Ch. 01

Shutting the door, she shed her outer coat, wishing that winter would see its way clear to surrender to spring sooner rather than later. Another day done, a few more dollars earned, all of it satisfactory, none of it satisfying. A sigh escaping her lips, she stepped through toward the hallway, glancing at the blinks of the answering machine. Although they may have called to others, to her they were almost unwanted, an intrusion into her life.When did I become so antisocial, she asked herself, a question she didn't bother to answer. The hard, wooden stairs felt somehow comforting beneath her feet; for some reason she was especially aware of each muscle in her legs working as she climbed.

With an effort, she ignored the few drops of rain that fell from her dark hair to the floor; after all, she had to have something to do later. Not like she'd be having to worry about a husband or children slipping on the slick steps - there aresome advantages to being alone . . . . Then again, there were other disadvantages that she usually put out of her mind. Not that she was exactly alone; she wondered what Daniel would say if he could hear her thoughts and to know that she mostly considered herself to be alone. Maybe he'd think little of it. After all, their "dating" was inconsistent - both rewarding and confusing. It was if they had reached a certain point and just . . . stopped. Well, not stopped, precisely, maybe more like frozen. Not getting closer or more serious, but not dropping off, either, something unusual in her experience.

With a start she realized that she was in her bedroom already. If her townhouse cost more than she wanted to pay and there was guilt surrounding the numbers that she wrote on the check each month, this room helped to balance the scales. Hardwood floored, high ceilinged and almost 30 feet long, she had come to think of her bedroom as her refuge and her sanctuary. Laughing to herself, at herself, Ali wondered when she had started thinking in those terms. Laugh as she would, though, she couldn't deny the ways in which this place had come to be 'home' to her in just a few short years. Had it really been 3 years? Three years that seemed to have rolled into one. Boyfriends come and gone, friends met and moved on, the names of acquaintances burned into memory and just as easily lifted out without intent . . . was it possible for a person to live three years, to work, to socialize, to LIVE but to have had nothing changed, nothing different at the end of the three?

God she was starting to annoy herself with this melancholy nonsense. Wandering toward the far end of the room, she watched the late day steams of sun slowly filter in through the window there. Although not very wide, it ran the full length, from the floor to the ceiling. One drawback of city life - the lack of direct natural light available when the building next door was a mere 10 feet away. At least Stephanie's window was decorated tastefully, not that you could tell with everything open as it was now. Unlike that idiot Brandon who had lived there when she first moved in. Wow, she hadn't thought of him in ages, overgrown frat boy who was so shocked when his sophomoric charms failed to gain him entrance to this very room. Good riddance. Even if she was a bit too sure of herself, a bit too fashionable, a bit too . . .everything, Stephanie was a better neighbor than Brandon had ever been. It was a only a sharp angle that allowed Krya to see a hint of the street, for which she was glad. Unless she moved to that very sport, there was no way to see the true "rest of the world" and thus no reason to acknowledge it. Her neighbor wasn't home yet, as evidenced by the lack of a small white BMW in the closest drive way next door.

By leaving the curtains open, she meant to invite the light in; she enjoyed the long shadows and the play of the sometimes dusty air that slowly made its dance across the inches and then feet and then yards. In a bit of an effort, she moved a few feet to the telephone, looking at the caller ID with some distaste. At least this one didn'tblink at her, as if she owed it something. Daniel. A call - from last night - but no message. Again, the conflicted feelings welled up.To Daniel or not to Daniel . . . she giggled, knowing that a certain Sir William would probably roll over in his grave, while at the same time not at all caring. What an odd world - of all the things, how did her neighbor end up being a woman who had datedhim, even if it was 5 years ago? An almost as odd that they had never really discussed it, other than the brief conversation last year when Daniel and Stephanie were suddenly face to face after she had knocked on Ali's door to drop off some mis-delivered mail and she and Daniel had answered. Not that she was jealous, but couldn't life and fate just sort of leave her alone sometimes? Oh, the hell with it, c'est la vie and all that.

Once again she approved of her decision to let the heat run during the day, despite the added expense. After being home for less than 10 minutes, the true state of the world - cold! - was almost a distant memory. Off came the her jacket, her shoes - god heels sucked in winter - and then the scarf. (Well, her mother would probably call it a pagmina, but that was an entirely different topic.) For the thousandth time she wondered if a somewhat snug top sent the wrong message at work, but it wasn't like she was flaunting anything, just dressing the bit, keeping up with the trends, etc. At least she wore a bra, something that seemed to be less common among some of the "braver" women of her age these days. Of course, bravery bolstered by a surgeon's knife was a story unto itself . . . . A turn to the right and then back to the left toward the window, the image reflected in the vanity was pleasing, if not perfect. She touched her stomach for a moment, pleased that it was still fairly taut - lord knew if she was eating salads 5 times a week there better be some positive consequences. Unlike a few lucky women (maybe sheshould dislike Stephanie after all), she had to work at keeping the muscles toned and the parts in the right places.

Thankfully, the winter hadn't made too horrible of a mess of her hair; the comb actually made its way through with only minimal tugging. More importantly, that dream she had ten days ago was only that; rather than her hair falling out, it was as long and thick as ever, dark brown with subtle, natural streaks of a lighter color blending in here and there. Ahhhhhh, so good to be home, the stress of the day almost literally draining out of her. Maybe a glass of wine in a little bit, followed by some more reading of that saucy book she'd almost been too embarassed to buy last week. She wasn't sure if the book was a good thing or a bad thing. Reading even just a chapter seemed to always result in one of two things: a restless sleep filled with dreams that left a sexual residue, even if she couldn't remember then, or a one hand sliding down between her legs and the other to one of her suddenly thickening nipples. What next, a membership card to an adult video store? Ha, mom and dad would love to come across that when visiting one day! Speaking of thickening nipples, maybe this bra should be coming off . . . .

A moment before physical contact Ali sensed something suddenly occupying the space behind her; later she would wonder if things would have been different had she acted in that moment, had she not been letting her mind drift toward the purient.
As it was, the hands grabbed her around the mouth and the waist, driving her forward and then onto her bed. "Don't move and don't try to say anything" is what she heard, the voice deep and flat. For a few seconds she couldn't have possibly done either, the wind driven from her and the shock of it paralyzing her. Her next thought was to try to look to the right at the mirror as she lay pinned, her stomach against the edge of the bed. Number one, she couldn't turn her head that far, number two, she realized the angle would be wrong anyhow. "Isaid don't move, did you think I was kidding?" The hand grabbed her head by her hair to emphasize the words, and she gasped. She did nothing but breathe for a few moments, trying desperately to think, to analyze.

Trying to talk through his hand: "Just take what you want and go, I promise I won't . . . "SMACK was the sound, immediately followed by the pain and the stunning realization that he had just slapped her on the ass, albeit much harder than ever before in her life. "If you refuse to listen, like a child, I'll treat you like one.Shut up." A child? Who the hell did he think he was, to spank her like a disobedient child? "If you think I won't do it again, and harder, just try me. If you think I won't do that and more, much more, then speak again without my permission." Silence, Ali considering, her captor waiting. Nothing. Silence. No, not silence; the clock ticking, the traffic outside, her breathing, labored and uneven. Oddly, the sound - or the feel - of his heart as it beat against her back.

She shuddered as his hand moved away from her mouth and over her face, cupping her chin and cheek. The hands were large and strong, but not rough. At least they didn't smell and seemed clean, from the bit she could see.Oh, great, how wonderful, I'm probably going to be raped and God knows what else by a clean man, how comforting, she railed at herself. She was in an awkward position, more or less kneeling, partway onto her bed, facing the window on the other side of the bed but with her upper chest and face sort of folded down onto the bed. He must have been much in the same position, but surrounding her body from behind; for once she wished she was one of those larger women, maybe then she'd have a chance. Grabbing her hair and head with his hand again - his right hand, he pulled her upper body back, so that she was truly kneeling. "Stand up." She did, although it was difficult considering that her legs seemed dead beneath her. He turned her around and moved her forward a step, then two, moving toward the middle of the room.

She waited, waited, hoping that they'd move in front of the mirror, allowing her to see him. Having felt his face against her head, she knew that he wasn't wearing a ski mask or anything like that. In an instant, her hope was completely, utterly changed into fear. Isn't that what they always said on TV or in the movies, that if they let you see their face, it meant that they were going to kill you in the end?God, God, God I don't want to see him, please, I don't want to, no no no. They weren't moving. She wasn't sure when they had stopped, but they weren't moving. Turning her head toward the mirror was the last thing she would ever do at that moment. Except that the next thing he said was "Look." She didn't, wouldn't. "Look to your left."No no no, no. "Look" - his hand began to turn her unwilling head - "in the mirror. Now." Seemingly without choice, Ali did so. In some ways, it was the strangest, most ridiculous feeling she'd ever had in her life.

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She couldn't see him. Well, not really. She could see his hands and his wrists. Some man, some stranger, some criminal had attacked her in her bedroom and she was feelingrelief! Also visible in the mirror was most of her body, at least from the side. Not sure that she'd ever been so glad to be wearing a bra before; for some reason, wearing pants instead of a skirt or dress was also comforting. His arm moved up from her waist, forearm moving up across her stomach. Although she could feel it, in the mirror she could only really see the hand and part of the wrist. Without meaning to, she shivered. His arm stopped moving for a moment and she held her breath. The arm's movement continued, the fingers starting to trace the flesh just beneath the cup of her bra. She tried to pull back away from that touch, but doing so just pushed her further against his front and gained her nothing. "What are you wearing underneath those pants?" Silence. She felt his hand leave her body. And braced herself to be struck again. But nothing. Instead, a finger slipped down the waistband of her pants in the back, feeling, probing. Maybe confirming that she was, in factwearing underwear. Which, of course, she was - what did he expect, that she was some whore, going to work with nothing underneath?

"You could have simply answered me. But you didn't. Maybe you don't quite understand who's in control,Ali." His use of her name knocked away the last underpinning of her composure. And he knew it. "Since you wouldn't answer me,Ali, you'll have to show me.

Take
your
pants
off."

She couldn't move. She, literally, couldn't move. She wasn't sure, but thought she might have been crying. He took her hands in his - and moved them down to her waist. She didn't resist. Her hands, in his, moved to her pants, the two of them, together, undoing the button. It took longer than normal, as her fingers felt thick and almost unresponsive. The zipper, though, seem to fly downward. Her hands, seemingly without her telling them to, slid the pants down over her thighs, her knees, her shins. Finally they were at her ankles. From the side view, in the mirror, she almost looked bottomless; only the thin red string showed. Eagerly, his hand cupped her from outside. A sound escaped her lips at the sudden contact, contact that should be intimate and sensual. As he grabbed, she squirmed. No matter the circumstances, no matter the way, it was a center of stimulation. A moment later - she wasn't even sure how it happened - her panties had joined her pants down around her ankles. "Give them to me." Even as she reached down to comply, his hand stayed between her legs, nothing between it and her. "I like how you shave your little pussy,Ali. I wonder how long it's been waiting for some attention. Maybe it's been waiting for me." "Stop." "What did you say?" "Stop." "I"m sure I didn't hear you." "Stop."

How did he know her name? Who was he? Then, a rational thought made it's way through: all he would have had to do was see a piece of her mail downstairs. The explanation meant little, given the circumstances.

She saw herself, for a moment, blurring away in the mirror. His grip was iron, propelling her around and to the right, around her bed toward the far wall. The new sensation was her front against the window, him still behind her, controlling her every movement. The glass was cold, the cold and the force of what had happened combining to force a cry out of her. For the first time, she really felt him. Felt him hard against her lower back and down against the curve of her ass. Warm and hard but a different type of hard than the glass that her nipples pressed against. At this point, her loss of control was almost complete. "How does it feel, Ali? My hard cock against you?" There was no answer; he didn't expect one, in truth. Reaching around, he forced his left hand between her body and the window. At first a slight touch, and then he grabbed her left nipple. "Did you know how hard your nipple is, Ali? Here you are, my prisoner, about to cry like a girl but your nipple is hard and begging to be sucked." She knew he was wrong, that it was only the cold in the air and the cold of the glass that had caused it. Sheknew it . . . .

"Spread your legs." When she didn't, he said it again and used his foot to help pry them further apart. His hand at her mouth, tracing her lips, which she locked shut and didn't move. His other hand came to her chin, to her cheeks. He forced her mouth open, but that was all. She inhaled deeply, the action causing her still hardened nipples to slide up and down against the glass. Again, there was no way to block the sensations that came from this. Ali gasped as, for the first time, she felt his lips on her. Lips and hot breath on her neck. As he did this, a finger probed between her lips and into her mouth. She refused to acknowledge it. Around it went, searching for her tongue. Suddenly it glazed the back of her throat; before she gagged, she fleetingly thought how long his fingers must be. The gag reflex moistened her mouth, and thus his finger. No, fingers; a second had followed the first. As his warm mouth continued to plant kisses on her neck and shoulders, his right hand was between her legs. His wet fingers toyed with her there, lightly stroking, lightly grasping. She knew she couldn't be wet, wouldn't be wet, it must have been all from his fingers. "Put your arms up against the window." Not understanding what he meant, she hesitated. "Like THIS" as he grabbed them both and raised them up, so that her arms were almost directly vertically over her head, the insides of them resting against the window. She turned her face to the right - not to try to see him, but rather to avoid the pressure on her nose. She was completely open now, completely exposed. "If you move, you're going to pay."

What . . . where was he going? A voice, his voice, in her ear and then fading slightly: "I've been waiting to taste you. Mmmmmm, waiting, wanting to taste that sweet, wet pussy of yours, Ali."

"Oh, I bet it's wet, you little slut." She shut her eyes, trying to drown out his words, his lies. After his mouth left her neck; a chill developed there immediately. Ali sensed him going downward and tried to close her knees. It was the best she could do, as his feet were locked inside hers, stopping her from moving them closer together. But then his arms were inside her legs, forcing them back open. Her fear gave her strength, but somehow it wasn't enough. She wanted to scream in frustration; all those hours at the gym, and for what? He was still bigger, stronger, able to control her despite all her efforts.

She almost cried out, loudly, at the expected yet shocking feeling of what must have been his tongue. His tongue, licking at her lips, pushing, probing, sliding, sucking. It seemed like the only heat in the world at that moment, that and his hands, which were grabbing her around the hips and forcing her to bend backwards slightly, allowing him the access he demanded. Access to her. Access to her pussy lips. Access to hercunt. Her breath was quickening, short, uneven gasps of breath as he licked. As he tasted her, as he fucked her with his tongue.

He stood. Grabbed her left arm. Went back down to his knees. Took her hand with him.

Licking, pushing, probing, sliding, sucking, fingering. But the fingering was hers. He had forced her finger up inside her. It had gone in easily. He still held her by the wrist and lower hand, moving her hand and thus her finger. She heard the noises he made as he sucked her. Felt the tremors run through her body involuntarily as he took her swollen pussy lip in his mouth and lightly sucked on it. Somehow she was stroking her clit now, his tongue licking her fingers and the hood of her clit as she did so. Now his finger was inside her. His finger, his tongue, her fingers, together as her pussy was simply dripping wet.

Then he was up, standing against her again. His finger back to her mouth. Inside her mouth. "Suck." She did. She sucked his finger. "Suck it the way you suck cock.

You like to suck cock, don't you?
You like something hard in your mouth, don't you?
Do you taste that sweet pussy?
I bet it's not the first time you've tasted pussy, is it?"

Shame burned her face, and she hoped he couldn't see it.