Laila's Home Invasion Pt. 01

I caught him in Mom and Dad's bedroom. I'd heard him rummaging around in there, and that's why I got the drop on him. I had my dad's semi-automatic pistol in my trembling hands, and I knew how to use it. Even so, I had to steady myself before going in there. I couldn't show an ounce of fear when confronting him. I had to act tough, or he was probably going to kill me...but I'll get back to that in a moment.

My name is Laila. My parents are pretty well off for a mixed couple; my dad is black and my mom is white. They're both attorneys for a prestigious law firm in the city, but they commute sixty miles from their large home in the country every day. I'm back home from college for my summer vacation, and I turned twenty-one four months ago. I want to be a professor of cultural studies with a specialty in racial conflict, but that's somewhat down the road in terms of work versus time.

I'm good looking, and I'm not afraid to admit it. I have a lighter tone of skin than some African-American girls, and my dark hair is long and curls at the bottom around my shoulders. I'm fit because I keep in shape, and I've got a little muscle under my skin, something I'm proud of considering I spend most of my time studying anymore. I'm tall, five-ten, and that's because my dad is tall like most of his relatives. My breasts aren't very big, they're a B-cup, but I'm not one of those girls that dwells on that. Naked I look good, and I don't have any dysphoria over my body like a lot of women do.

But enough description. Let me explain my dilemma and why I may be going to jail soon. I'm actually terrified right now, because...I've done something very, very illegal. And it was all because of Sam. You have to understand...I have no idea what Sam's real name is. I've never actually heard him speak. Sam is something I made up. It stands for 'Silent, Accepting, and Mysterious'.

The trouble started when Mom and Dad left for summer vacation. My summer vacation was going to be at the house, but they were taking a cruise to the Caribbean. They left me in charge of the place, their only daughter, but Dad had instructed me in how to use a firearm; we'd fired pistols and rifles down at the range on the weekends when I was younger. I was not to throw any parties or bashes or have anyone over that wasn't trustworthy, but all of my friends were away from the university out of state for the summer, so it was just me here. I could drive into town or even to the city if I needed to, but I figured I wouldn't need to go out very often for the five weeks Mom and Dad would be gone. I was just going to chill and do my own thing anyway, read, watch TV, take walks out in the woods, talk to my friends online, and play some games. It was just downtime for me and my life, a much-needed chance to sit and melt and vegetate for a while.

For three days after Mom and Dad left I did exactly that, vegetate. I gave myself some me time, chatted with my friends online, and blew off some sexual tension by having a little 'alone time' as well. Everything was good. The problem started because I went to the small nearby town and back on the morning of the fourth day. I made the mistake of parking my car in the back garage instead of the front one. Normally my car was in the driveway, because my Dad had locked the front garage, the one attached to the house, and I didn't have the key to open it or the remote to raise the shutter. I parked my car in the 'back garage', or the old barn that my Dad sometimes parked in when snow was heavy in winter. His plow was in there, but there was more than enough space for one more vehicle, and though his truck was normally in there, he must have left it in the front garage, so I parked my little red compact in that empty space. The reason this was a mistake is because it made the house look empty with no visible vehicles out front. It made the house look vulnerable.

It was after eight PM when I caught Sam. You see, I had all of the lights off except for a little reading lamp in my bedroom on the second floor. I was reading a fantasy romance while in my thin, white-silk nightgown and panties, and I'm embarrassed to say that I was fingering myself a little during a particularly juicy scene involving the heroine and the elven scout she was falling in love with. Everybody does it, so I'm going to admit it, because it's the reason I went downstairs. You see, I'm not a 'toys' kind of girl, but my mom had a box of them down in the basement. They were a joke gift from her friends when she got married to my dad. I knew exactly where that box was; it was hidden on the lowest shelf of a metal stand that held a lot of my dad's old junk, old electronics and parts, some magazines, that kind of stuff. My mom's 'toy box' had a couple of dildos and some butt plugs, but it also had a little blue vibrator, and that's what I wanted. I was going to get a little alone time with it before I went to bed at ten.

I was going to turn on the hall light outside my bedroom when I spied a light on downstairs. I knew for a fact that I hadn't turned on any lights downstairs, so I got scared for obvious reasons. I went back into my bedroom and snapped up my little black flashlight, something no larger in length than a pen, and I quietly made my way into my dad's study at the end of the hall across from the upstairs bathroom. I took the gun keys from Dad's first aid kit under his work desk and opened the glass case on the east wall. I was shaking as I took down his Glock 19. I took out a clip from his locked ammunition case in the southeast corner and loaded the firearm. I was wired with adrenaline, and not for any of the good reasons.

I kept my pistol up and in my right hand as I tried to make my way down the wooden staircase without alerting anyone that might be in the house. I wasn't just going to fire willy-nilly as soon as I saw someone; my dad had taught me to identify a target before firing. He'd taught me how to look for cover during a shooting, how to use cover to get away, and how to properly fire with both hands when there were no other options left. Still, I was not looking forward to 'encountering' anyone in my family's home.

The light was coming from my parents' bedroom, and I heard someone moving around in there. My heart was beating so fast that I thought it was going to explode, but I had to look, so I silently moved across the living room and waited at the edge of the door. I held my Glock up in both hands and quickly took a look around the corner. I got a jump start to my heart when I saw a stranger in there, a white man with his back turned to me. This was happening now, it was real, and I was going to have to deal with it.

I cursed in my own mind as I realized my smart phone was upstairs on my bed. I should have called the police, but I had to investigate first. Still, I should have had my phone on me. I realized right then that I was still in my white-silk nightgown and panties, and I mentally bemoaned the fact that I should have put on some jeans with pockets in order to carry my phone. I probably should have had on my bra and shirt, too, because the bumps of my nipples were clearly visible on my nightgown.

I stepped into the doorway, my right foot forward with my left foot back. I pointed the pistol at his back and sucked in my breath in order to steady my resolve. I had to look like I wasn't afraid. I had both hands on the grip and my right index finger on the trigger, so I was ready.

He turned when he heard me suck in my breath, and I got a good look at him for the first time. He was rummaging through my mom's nightstand next to my parents' bed, and he had some items laid out on the top of the nightstand, some old jewelry my mom didn't wear anymore. He was dressed in a plain black long sleeve with no writing on it, and he wore regular black jeans without any extra pockets on them. He had on black socks and black sneakers, and apparently his favorite color was black, either that or he just took the stereotype of burglar and ran with it. He was about five-foot-eleven, an inch taller than myself, and thin, with that skinny, corded muscle look. Anyway, I took a good look at his face and committed it to memory just in case I had to drill a hole in his head. He had a slender but fairly attractive face with the remains of a thin beard and mustache, a little shadow ring around his thin lips as if he'd shaved recently. He had short black hair, but it was his eyes that stood out a little. They were an off grey...or blue...I couldn't really tell from the distance I was at. The other thing I noticed was the scar across his thin neck. It ringed around him almost all the way round, as if someone had taken a knife and slashed him but he hadn't died.

"Freeze," I said firmly. "Don't move a muscle, or I'll put a bullet right between your eyes."

He looked at me in surprise at first, but then he raised both hands in the air. He didn't show an ounce of fear, though, and that got to me, stuck in me a bit. He was dangerous, I was sure of it, so I wasn't going to let him get close enough to disarm me.

I backed up from the doorway and motioned with the Glock for him to exit the room. We were going to take a little trip down to the basement. There was a 'guest' bed down there, a singles bed that I was going to handcuff him to. My dad actually had handcuffs with the keys down there, so if they were ever going to get used, now was the time.

"Get out of my parents' bedroom now," I ordered. "Move, Mister. I will kill you, and no court of law will convict me over it. Let's go."

I made my way into the kitchen and flipped on the light, my aim and attention squarely upon the intruder. I motioned for him to follow as I walked past the kitchen table to the basement door. I nodded my head toward the door, opened the basement door, and flipped on the lights.

"Downstairs," I ordered. "Now."

He kept his hands up as I backed up in order to let him go first. We made our way down the stairs, but this man said nothing, not an ounce of fear coming off of him. He unnerved me, and I have to admit that I almost shot him right then, but I'm glad I didn't. But I'll get to that.

"On the bed," I ordered as we both stepped off the basement stairs. "Lay down on the bed on your back. Do it now. I will kill you if you don't comply."

He did as ordered. He laid down on the bed with his hands at his sides.

"Arms up," I commanded, my aim directed right between his eyes. "Put your hands on the bed posts."

The old bed he was on was metal with a pole rack at the head of the bed. This made it perfect for handcuffs. Part of me suspected it was down here for my parents to play 'cops and robbers', but I really didn't want my thoughts to go there. I still had a sex life, and thinking of my parents playing kinky sex games threatened to destroy it. Anyway, there were two pairs of handcuffs on the desk next to the bed, the keys next to them. I tried really hard not to imagine why they were there.

I threw him a pair of handcuffs without another thought, and he caught the pair before they could land on his chest.

"To the bed," I ordered. "Handcuff yourself to the bed. Pick a hand and handcuff yourself to one side of the bed."

He took the pair of handcuffs and looked down at them, looked up at me with that piercing gaze of his, but what he was thinking, I did not know. His eyes were a strange color, a dull blue, like a grey-blue, not ugly, but not something that stood out either, and that's what made them unusual. He handcuffed his left hand to the left side of the bed, the handcuff on the furthest left post.

I raised my hand up above my head, my Glock in that hand, that way he couldn't grab it when I attached the other handcuff to him. I still aimed it down at him, fully ready to pull the trigger.

"Stay still," I ordered. "Put your right hand up there so I can handcuff you."

I was jittery and afraid as I quickly handcuffed his right hand to the furthest right post. I breathed a sigh of relief after that and lowered my gun. I felt such an oozing of relief at that moment that I just wanted to melt into a chair somewhere, but I couldn't leave him unattended.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He looked up at me with that strange and piercing gaze but said nothing. I knew he could understand what I was saying, because he'd followed all of my orders to the letter.

"I asked you a question," I said.

He said nothing but simply stared at me. It was really unnerving.

"Can you speak?" I asked.

He shook his head no.

"Is it because of that scar on your neck?" I asked.

He nodded twice in a slow motion.

"How did you get that?" I asked. "Did someone slit your throat?"

He nodded again, and for some weird reason I felt a pang of regret over that. It just hit me in the chest, and that was odd, because this man was an intruder, and if I hadn't gotten the drop on him, he could have raped and/or killed me. It was stupid to feel anything at all about him. He was lucky he didn't have six bullets in him.

"Are you a murderer?" I asked.

He shook his head no.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" I asked.

He did not answer me at first. He simply looked at me with that piercing gaze of his, and this bothered me a lot. No one stalls on a question like that without the obvious reason behind that stalling.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" I asked again.

He nodded once, and I felt my heart leap into my throat. This man had killed before, and for some reason that took me by surprise.

"Was it in self-defense?" I asked.

He nodded again, and I felt a little better over this, but in truth I shouldn't have lowered my mental defenses over the matter. I needed to call 911, but for some reason I kept questioning him.

"Have you ever raped anyone?" I asked.

He gently shook his head no, and I sucked in my breath in relief.

"Are you a pedophile?" I asked.

It was an odd question to ask a burglar, but I figured him to be a sociopath, so I asked it anyway. However, his reaction was immediate. He moved his head back against the bedposts and raised his left eyebrow as if taking offense to that statement, and then he shook he head no.

"Sorry," I said without thinking.

I shook my own head to get myself back on track. I had some more questions for him, though I needed to call the police. It was the fact that he was mute that fascinated me, and those eyes, and that scar he had...I couldn't help myself.

"If you had found me here," I asked, "and I hadn't gotten the drop on you, would you have killed me?"

He slowly shook his head no.

"Would you have raped me?" I asked.

He gave me that offended look again, but this time he frowned.

"What would you have done?" I asked.

He looked at me as if I were stupid. I didn't particularly like that look, but I realized that he couldn't answer that question properly, so I deserved it.

"Would you have tied me up?" I asked.

He thought about this; that motion of mind was on his narrow face. He nodded a moment later.

"You were taking out my mom's jewels," I said. "Were you going to take them? Were you going to steal my mom's jewels?"

He didn't answer me. I already knew the answer to my own question, though.

"Were you going to take them?" I asked again, this time more forcefully.

He sucked in his breath and then nodded a couple of times.

"So you really are a burglar," I breathed.

He shrugged as if he was saying 'okay'.

"I should call the police," I said. "You'll be a good boy and stay right there. I'll take these handcuff keys with me...and remember...I know this house like the back of my hand. You move, and I'll hunt you down. I'll kill you...Understand?"

He nodded at me once and then looked off to the side as if ignoring me. That bothered me a little bit, but for what reason, I couldn't fathom.

I grabbed the handcuff keys and trotted back up the basement stairs. I practically ran up the stairs to my bedroom and quickly grabbed my phone. I was going to dial 911, but I stopped, my right index finger hovering over my phone. My heart quickened as I looked down at my fantasy romance novel. A quick and dirty thought struck me, but I tossed it out of my brain.

I put my phone back down on my bed. I decided, rationalized really, that I needed to question my captive some more. Actually, that moment was when I made my biggest mistake. I should have simply called the police.

I walked back downstairs, Glock in hand, and made my way to the kitchen. I kept thinking about my silent, mysterious, and obeying intruder. I thought about it and decided to just call him 'Sam', Sam for Silent, Accepting, and Mysterious. Yep, I made up that acronym, and I really shouldn't have. It drove me to investigate him even more.

I made my way down the basement stairs, half-expecting Sam to have vanished from the bed, but he was still there, still spread-eagled and handcuffed to the bed.

"I haven't called the police yet." I said. "You're going to answer my questions before I do."

I realized at that moment that I hadn't changed into jeans or a shirt, hadn't put on a bra, hadn't put on my socks and shoes...I should have done all of that when I was upstairs. What was wrong with me? What was I thinking?

"How old are you?" I asked. "Age is a factor in crime. You look about twenty-four..."

He shook his head no.

"Twenty five?" I asked, but I only received the same response from Sam. "Twenty-six? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight...?"

He nodded twice.

"You're twenty-eight?" I asked. "Well, I'm only twenty-one, Sam."

He gave me an odd look as he leaned his head back.

"I don't know your name," I said warily. "I'm just going to call you Sam, okay?...Look, I'm only twenty-one, Sam. I'm still new to the world, relatively speaking. That makes me a little paranoid, especially being out here by myself while my parents are away. You can understand why this was a stupid thing to do, right? Break into this house, right? Anyone else would have shot you. You'd be lying dead on my parents' bedroom floor upstairs."

His eyebrows narrowed downwards as he gave me a deep grimace and turned to look to his left, down at something only he could see.

"It's the truth," I said. "I don't know why you decided to come out here and rob this house, or even how you got out here in the first place, but...it wasn't smart. You shouldn't be stealing. I don't want to be racist or sexist, but...you're a white man, and you're young. You could find good work if you looked hard enough."

He looked at me again as if I were stupid, this time with a deep frown on his face.

"Don't give me that look," I frowned. "I know that look. I'm just lucky that my parents are well off. Most black girls don't have that luxury. Most black girls are struggling just to make it day to day in this country."

He gave me a kind of insulting shrug.

"It's a fact," I scowled. "I'm going to be a professor in Racial Studies. I'm going to do my part to stop racial injustice."

He rolled those odd colored eyes of his, and that pissed me off.

"Don't fucking write me off!" I swore. "Don't marginalize racism, asshole!"

He lowered his head and stared right at me, those weird-colored eyes looking right through me. For some reason this sparked a fire in me, really pissed me off, so I hopped up on the bed and straddled him, pressed the Glock right to his forehead, right between his eyes.

"I'll blow your brains out right now, motherfucker!" I practically shouted.

He pushed his head forward into the barrel, silently daring me to pull the trigger. My breathing was ragged and quick from adrenaline, excitement, and rage. I noticed for the first time what I was doing, and this stunned me into doing nothing for a moment. For one thing, I could feel my vulva in my panties pressing into his crotch, could feel the bulge of his penis pressing against me through his jeans. I moved back a bit on accident, rubbed my clit a little, and I felt an electric current jolt right through me. You see, I had a boyfriend when I was in high school, and we'd had sex, so I wasn't a virgin, but we broke up before I even graduated high school, and I didn't currently have a boyfriend right now. I was too busy with my studies for that. Masturbation was pretty much my go to for countering my sexual frustration.