tagMind ControlSecret Sins Ch. 04

Secret Sins Ch. 04



Sunday morning found me under the covers, lathered in perspiration. Even my hair was wet with it as I crawled out of bed, my little nighty plastered to my body. Not being a morning person, I didn't think much of it then. Having lived in Iqaluit for so long, sleeping above the covers was a difficult thing to get used to, and I wasn't surprised that I'd gotten under them at some point during the night.

My double size, red coffee mug was down on the main level, and it wasn't until I'd gone down the stairs to get it that I was reminded of the real reason for my having slept the night under the covers.

The chair was still just as I'd left it the night before, (of course) and as I looked at it, suddenly recalling the details of what had happened, those tingles and shivers returned to cover my body. And, like the night before, I could only stand and stare as the hair stood up on the back of my neck.

As I've mentioned, I've never liked basements, most especially unfinished ones. There's always been something about them that gives me the creeping jitters, and the events of the night before really didn't help.

However, with a shaky, deep breath in the morning light, I was able to overcome my baseless fears to quite an extent. Though still staring somewhat fearfully at the questionably secured basement door, I passed it in order to get to the kitchen. Even on my return trip, I eyed it, glancing at it again as I mounted the stairs, hurrying back up to the upper level with my boobs bouncing in the drying nightie.

After three cups of coffee in my cozy, undecorated living room, I was more or less back to normal, at least normal enough for a little research on my laptop. I curled into the corner of the sectional, the morning bathing me in its light and warmth through the east facing windows as I googled, 'sleepwalking', and here's what I found:

Sleepwalking is more common for children than adults, though not at all uncommon for adults. Generally, it's caused by sleep deprivation, though other factors such as febrile illnesses and certain medications including sedatives and alcohol can be a factor. In children, sleepwalking often occurs in conjunction with bed wetting, sleep apnea and sleep terrors. Like sleepwalking, sleep terrors, also known as 'night terrors', tends to run in families. Behaviour during sleepwalking events can range from sitting up in bed and looking around, getting out of bed and walking around, urinating in closets, (more common with children) screaming, violent episodes and even more complex behaviours such as driving long distances. Finally, because a sleepwalker is usually in a deep sleep during the event, he or she typically has little or no memory of the episode.

All in all, this didn't help much. Up to that night, I'd been sleeping well, I wasn't taking any medications and I never drank alcohol. I was quite sure I wasn't suffering from a febrile illness and, while the weather had been hot, actually thirty-one degrees Celsius the previous day, I doubted it was hot enough to elevate my body temperature to feverish levels. Also, I remembered perfectly well getting out of bed, going downstairs, opening the door and saying the things I'd said... just not why, or how it was that my conscious mind didn't seem to know what I was doing as I was doing it. I hadn't been wetting the bed and, to my knowledge, I've never had any episodes of sleepwalking in the past, not as an adult or as a child. No, sleepwalking didn't seem to fit the episode in question, however, in the absence of any other plausible explanation, my sleepwalking theory nonetheless remained.

Probably in an effort to shake off the creeping feelings of paranoia and fear, my mind gradually turned to other things, namely lesbians. Proving that Donna hadn't after all cleansed my soul of its afflicting porn addiction, I watched some lesbian seduction videos, then went to some picture galleries of the same theme.

Sometimes I find that a series of still pictures can offer my perversion more fodder than a video that sometimes inhibits my imagination. With a good series, I can improvise a whole premise that adds so much colour, so much vivid detail that porn almost always seems to lack in some way and, sitting there on my sectional, it wasn't long before I found a good one.

It featured three women of about Donna's age sitting on a couch, watching television while eating popcorn. The one in the middle, a blonde, dropped some popcorn on her chest. The collar of her low cut top held it at the top of her cleavage until her brunette friend on the right picked it up with her mouth. The blonde found this funny and harmless, watching as both brunettes began making a game of eating popcorn off her chest until they had to go digging for a piece that went down her top. She wasn't wearing a bra and, while she watched one of her friends sucking her nipple, mouth open in surprise and pleasure, the other was spreading her legs with a sleazy little smile as she checked out the crotch of her white panties under her short skirt. By the time they'd gotten her down on the couch, one of them sitting on her face while the other fingered her pussy, she seemed to have abandoned herself to their will, and the ensuing scenes of half-dressed boobs and pussies got me off in yelping orgasm as my fingers rapidly flicked my clit.

"Lord Jesus, please forgive me," I whispered afterward.

Staring at my finger as it ran with my own juices, I asked for forgiveness again, silently as I slowly put it in my mouth and sucked it clean.


That was new.

Feeling much better, I stood in front of the basement door five minutes later, still in my little sheer nightie. Without much hesitation, I took the chair from its post and returned it to the kitchen table before coming back to stand in front of the door again, closer this time. Reaching out my hand, I grasped the knob, turned it and pulled the door open, wincing at the squeak of its old hinges as the smell of must instantly assaulted the scent of fresh paint that now pervaded the house.

Stepping forward, I returned to the spot I'd been the night before, the small, dark landing at the top of the stairs. Because there were no basement windows, it was still pitch black down there, even in the daytime, until I reached around the doorframe and turned the lights on. From my vantage point at the top of the stairs, there didn't seem to be any monsters down there, but actually starting my way down the creaking stairs took some doing just the same.

With my slippered feet on the rough, concrete floor of the basement, I still saw no monsters as I looked around. It was a shadowy place where only dust kept the ancient oil furnace and its supply tank company. With no small amount of trepidation, I started towards the far corner where these seemingly lone inhabitants resided.

The furnace was actually a respectable distance from the tank, this being a fire safety necessity, and looked as though someone had recently cleaned it up. What I assumed to be the hot water tank that fed the faucets squatted to its side, connected by copper pipe and, like the furnace itself, hiding no little monsters behind it.

Approaching the large, dark red supply tank, I noted that it looked somewhat new and I wondered how in blazes the installers had even gotten it down there. In any case, it was set right against the wall with no space for anything to get behind it and hide. A quick look underneath its belly revealed no creepy-crawlies there either and, with this visual information, it was time to investigate under the stairs.

Like everywhere else in the basement, this area was clean of any clutter or crouching monsters, and it was time to get out of there. I mounted the foot of the steps, looking up to the open doorway that spilled daylight into the landing area at the top, and a horrible thought burst into being within my mind. I imagined the door suddenly slamming closed a split second before the lights went out, plunging me into total darkness. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck again, and I had to force myself not to run up the stairs, but I was unable to refrain from looking over my shoulder a few times as I hastily made for the main level.

Slamming the door shut, I put my back against it, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out as I tried to calm myself.


Moments later, I turned off the light and went back upstairs. I'd established for myself in no uncertain terms that there was nothing evil lurking in the basement, at least not then, but that was apparently not enough to placate my irrational fear of dark holes in the ground.

Monday morning came around without any further incidents of sleepwalking, or whatever. Obviously, I didn't mention it to Donna because I didn't want her to think I was a crazy idiot, but also because, at that point, the event had mostly taken a backseat in my mind anyway.

"You are so hot in that uniform," she said, sitting at the kitchen table with her morning coffee and a smile that looked as though it would start drooling saliva at any second.

"So, you like girls in uniform, huh?" I teased, putting my hair up so I could don the bowler hat.

"I sure like this girl in uniform. I bet you're wearing some sexy lingerie underneath it too, aren't you, sweetie pie?"

"Always," I assured.

I was trying not to focus on sex just then as she sat there in another pair of low-rise jeans that must have come from the same spray can that her hip huggers did. Despite this, they were decent enough for her to wear to work, at least in my admittedly favoured opinion, along with the black, short sleeved, open necked top that was tucked into them. It may have been snug enough to showcase her wares quite well, but it covered everything and, since she wasn't the one who had to go out and present herself to the neighbourhood that day, it was appropriate. Appropriate enough. To my mind.

"What are you going to be doing today?" I asked, my eyes focused on her chest, the lines of her low cut bra showing through the thin material of her top as it stretched across her boobs.

"You, I hope."

"Donna..." I prodded with a grin.

"I was going to mow the side lot until I realized that we don't have a lawnmower."

"That's right," I agreed with a frown. "I'll have to talk to the Major about that this Friday. What else?"

"You need an office."

"I do?"

"Of course you do. Furthermore, there's nothing separating the stairs to your personal quarters from the main level. I suggest that I build an office around the stairs. There's no window there, but there's a power receptacle in the corner. An office, which you do need, segregating the stairs with a lock on the door would also solve your privacy problem."

" ... Can you do that?" I asked doubtfully.

"Build you an office? So easily, sweetie pie."

"That's Lieutenant Sweetie Pie to you," I joked.

Donna sat straighter, pushing her perfect boobs out while feigning a serious expression with a smart salute.

"But, what about materials?" I asked, unable to resist the soft fondling of one of her breasts.

"Mmm. Some two-by-four, several sheets of drywall, mud, one interior door with a frame, lockable knob set, trim and baseboard. And I'm sure we have enough paint left over to do that up."

"But, the cost," I worried, letting her boob go.

"Essentially, it's just two walls and a door," she pointed out. "And your living quarters should have that privacy and security. I seriously doubt the Major could really argue that. Anyway, I could take some measurements, get on the phone and have an estimate for you by the time you get back if you'd like."

"Alright,"I agreed, putting on my hat. "No harm in that, and you're right; I should have that level of privacy, and Major Hurdle can't very well argue that."

"When do you think you'll be back?" she asked.

"Not sure," I replied.

"I hope you're not wearing your jacket. It's over thirty Celsius again today, and I don't want you getting heat stroke out there."

"Never entered my mind," I said with a smile.

"And undo the top button of your blouse," she said. "It's too hot for that, too."

"It's too hot for that, too," I said, promptly unfastening the top button of my blouse with a smile for those dazzlingly beautiful, hazel eyes.

As I was a week before, I was struck by the deceptively cozy atmosphere of North central, its tree lined streets and quiet bungalows peacefully defying the label of 'Canada's worst neighbourhood'. It wasn't quite ten o'clock and, as I started down Rae Street, I wondered if it wouldn't have been better to wait until later to take this stroll, as there didn't seem to be anybody out and about.

Turning right on Fifth Avenue, however, I spied someone else on the sidewalk. She had black hair, probably aboriginal, and was walking towards me from Retallack Street, wearing what looked like a brown poncho and black jeans. She waved to a couple of young men walking on the opposite sidewalk and, though they glanced at her, they rudely declined response. Then she waved to a passing motorist. And then another.

Now I was wondering about this woman. At first, I'd assumed that she was a local and was waving to people she knew, but by the time she'd waved at the third car, I knew this couldn't be the case and began wondering if she didn't harbour some mental instability. As we approached each other, I could see that she was indeed aboriginal, in her mid to late twenties and had that look that people have when they're busy about something. When we were close enough, I stopped, offering my hand in greeting and noting her guarded, yet curious expression as she observed my uniform.

"Good morning," I said with a friendly tone. "I'm Tara."

She only continued to stare for a moment, making me feel awkward and increasingly uncomfortable with my hand still open between us until she finally spoke with an empty smile.

"Suck your pussy for five bucks?"

With this offer came immediate and complete understanding of her behaviour and, as I stood there, my smile having turned to open mouthed shock, my mind clamoured for some appropriate response to this. My hand fell to my side with the vague thought that I mightn't want to touch her anyway, (who knows where her hands had recently been?) but I managed a polite, although halting refusal.

"Uh... no- no thanks, I... No thank you."

Her empty smile dropped like my offered hand, and it wasn't until she started to move around me to go on her way that I was able to react further.

"(Ahem) I, uh, I just moved to the neighbourhood. Up here on Rae Street."

She stopped, turned to regard my uniform again and asked, "Why?"

"The Salvation Army has opened a community ministry there. You're welcome to come by any time."

After a pause, she again asked. "Why? You got clean needles?"

"Uh, no, we... I mean, if you'd like to come in someplace safe, maybe have a cup of coffee and talk to someone..."

She only stood there, staring at me, obviously trying to figure out my motives.

"What's your name?" I asked, my shiny, polite smile back in place.

After a moment of clear deliberation had passed, she replied, "Leanne. What did you say your name was?"

"Tara," I supplied. "Tara Watts."

"You're with the Salvation Army?"

"Yes," I replied, thinking that must have been obvious, but...

She nodded slightly, then said, "Goodbye, Tara Watts of the Salvation Army," before turning and walking away.

I could only stand, watching her, feeling a sudden personal dysfunctionality as she began waving to men driving by in cars again. This was my first taste of North Central Regina's curse, the curse of poverty and hopelessness. It was written all over her face, it spoke between every one of the few lines she'd uttered and said so much more than what her outer voice had. This, I knew, was a perfect example of why people needed Christ, why I'd joined the Salvation Army and why I was sent to North Central.

I turned and went on my way, thinking of Leanne and all the young women like her, thinking of the contrast between her life and mine and what kind of childhood experiences it must take for a life to find itself on a path such as the one she was on. Making a right on Retallack, I kept walking, looking at the sidewalk ahead of me while wondering what chance that she and others like her really had of escaping that life. Looking up and around myself at my surroundings, I saw again the deceptively cozy picture of inner city suburban life that I'd been earlier noting. All the little signs of poverty seemed to stick out with more clarity now that I'd met Leanne, a living example of what this cozy little neighbourhood bred.

Two people were approaching, walking down the sidewalk towards me. They were also aboriginal, a large man who walked silently, face down, and a thin woman who walked beside him, animatedly speaking with an energetic smile. As we approached, she looked at me, continuing to speak to her friend as he kept his eyes trained on the sidewalk ahead of him, wooden faced and unreadable. One would have thought his female companion was nothing more than a ghost who was trying to get his oblivious attention, the opposing natures of these two actually a little comical.

I moved to the side to give way, but stopped, smiling at her as I said, "Good morning. Beautiful day."

She also stopped and, with her bubbly, energetic manner, replied, "Better with ice cream."

She offered a light hearted laugh with this comment as I nodded my surprised agreement. She seemed quite friendly and willing to talk but, as her friend had kept walking without even registering my existence, she was forced to hurry off in order to catch up, her joyous demeanor again assaulting the immovable rock she travelled the sidewalk with.

And this, more or less, was how my morning went, strolling along with no particular direction, greeting people I met, sometimes introducing myself, sometimes talking and getting varied responses as I familiarized myself with the neighbourhood. By the time I finally approached my house on Rae Street, it was early afternoon and my feet were a little sore from walking in my regulation heels. I was in a good mood, though unsure of whether or not I'd actually accomplished anything beyond making my presence in the neighbourhood known to a relatively small fraction of people there. Though that was my actual goal for the day, I was used to accomplishments taking some physical form, such as the progress Donna and I had made on the house's interior, and I was feeling strangely let down by myself until I was brought to a surprised halt in front of the Mission.

A young man with a body like a bag of potatoes in silvery basketball shorts and a long, electric blue T-shirt was raking the small front lawn in front of me. In addition, an older man was mowing the side lot. He was of average build and height, not particularly attractive, nor ugly, and was wearing old blue jeans with a green Roughriders tank top. From under his cap, his lips held a cigarette as he pushed the beat up looking, red and black gas mower up the middle of the lot towards the sidewalk.

To his left and with her back to me, a woman was crouched at the foot of the fence that separated the empty lot from the next house's driveway, cutting away at the tall grass and weeds that grew there with a pair of garden shears. Small piles of her gatherings had been left at intervals along the foot of the fence and a teenage girl had just started picking these up, putting them into an old wooden produce basket.

Picking up the trampled and sickly grass, the dark haired lout stared with a stupid smile at my sexy assistant as she began sprinkling grass seed where he'd already raked until I stopped, causing them both to look at me

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