Copyright ZZ (AK) "Why do you think you're here?"
I hated people who answered questions with questions. This guy had
already done it at least a dozen times. I studied his face, but his
cold, professional mask revealed nothing.
"I have no idea," I said, trying not to sound annoyed or agitated,
which I was. That certainly would have pleased him and helped him to
rationalize what the police had said. As if reading my mind he
continued:
"You know of course, what the police say?"
"Yes. But their wrong. Totally wrong. Why won't you or those morons
believe me?" I asked pointedly, staring at his sterile, spectacled
face. He leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers behind his head.
He looked out the window. The pretentious prick was probably thinking
about his golf game later that afternoon and how I, like all the
others, was in denial and would have to be worn down before seeing the
light. At last he turned his head and met my unwavering stare. He
smiled whimsically.
"You have to admit," he said at last, "your story is pretty
farfetched. And not that original either. I've heard much better ones
in my day."
So. My plight was only a story to this guy. Sure, my memory wasn't
what it used to be and I now tired easily, but I was telling the truth.
Was what happened to me really that hard to believe?
* * *
I hadn't been able to take my eyes off her. Except when she had
looked my way of course. She had shoulder-length, brown wavy hair and
was wearing an expensive-looking, navy blue suit with a short skirt.
Even though I pretended to be working with my palm pilot or fiddling
with my salad, I hadn't fooled her. Not by a long shot. After looking
away yet again, I noticed her smile from the corner of my eye. I had
come a long way in the nineteen years since high school, but I was
still kind of shy. At last, I stood up and walked towards her. I had
also gotten a little braver. This time it was her turn to pretend
distraction, as she stirred her drink with a straw.
"Hi," I said.
She looked up at me and smiled pleasantly.
"Well, hello," she said.
"I couldn't help but notice that you hadn't gotten a table yet. I
was wondering if, er, that is, if you'd like to join me? I'm alone and
nobody seems to be in a hurry to leave."
"Sure. I would love to," she said in a low, seductive voice. She
slipped off the bar stool and in a smooth motion picked up her black,
leather attaché case before following me. I had of course gotten a good
look at her magnificent, sheer, stockinged legs and sexy, patent blue
pumps. I was surprised that she was wearing five-inch heels for
presumably work, but she walked expertly in them. I felt eyes piercing
our backs as I pulled out the chair for her and eased it back under
her. The waiter was instantly at our table and she placed an order, for
a martini and escargots.
"Are you a model or something?" I asked her.
"Marketing, actually, but thanks for the compliment. Contract work
for corporations. That sort of thing." She looked up at me from under
long lashes as she sipped from the straw. She had that extremely
polished look that only older, snobby rich women seem to perfect after
decades of practice. Yet, she seemed only around twenty-five, but nice.
Refreshingly nice considering her beauty. She was exuding an amazing
amount of glamour and vitality.
"What do you do?" she asked pleasantly. As she looked into my eyes,
she actually seemed to want to know. Like it was the only thing that
mattered at that moment.
"I'm a project manager. I'm setting up a computerized route-automation system for a snack-food company."
"That sounds interesting."
"Interesting wouldn't be my choice of words, but it is very
challenging. Sometimes I feel like I'm in over my head. I have to work
a lot on weekends too."
"You do look a little stressed. What do you do to relieve all that stress?"
It took me a moment to answer. I didn't want to tell her about the
Internet sites I occasionally visited or what I wanted to do to her in
a nearby hotel room. Instead, I told her about what I managed to do
about a half-dozen times per month.
"I work out in the gym. I like the elliptical cross-country
ski-simulators and the Stairmaster. A little weightlifting as well."
"I personally don't believe in such a contrived method of exercise.
I prefer something a little more carnal myself." She looked straight
into my eyes with the most powerful, mesmerizing gaze that I had ever
seen. Hypnotically entrancing. I had to look away from her and could
feel my face turning crimson. I was saved by the arrival of the waiter
bearing my main course and her Martini and appetizers. We talked very
little during the meal.
"How're your escargots?"
"Marvellous."
"Are you sure you don't want an entrée?"
"Yes. I'm into grazing. Not too much at once."
"I see."
I was chewing my last mouthful of pasta seafood and broccoli, when
I felt a stockinged foot rub the top of my shoes before moving up my
sock, into my pant leg, and over my shin. I let out a gasp and felt a
chunk of broccoli get sucked into my windpipe. The waiter also chose
this moment to return.
"Would you like dessert menus?" he inquired.
I answered him with a choking cough that turned into a fit, lasting
several minutes. Most of the patrons were still looking at me as I the
last spasm subsided after much intake of water.
"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously. "Would you like me to bring more water?"
"I'm fine," I replied in a hoarse voice. "Thanks for your concern."
After the waiter left, my luncheon companion gave me a look that
startled me. She seemed to be studying me. Analyzing. Trying to make up
her mind about something. At last she spoke up.
"That was quite a reaction to a little footsies. I haven't even
tried anything serious yet. Do you think you can handle a woman like
me?"
As she looked straight into my eyes, I felt desperate. Desperate to not disappoint. Desperate to have her.
"Of course ... I-I-I'm fine. Just a little broccoli in the wrong
spot. No need to overreact. I can handle it ... baby." I tried to look
self-assured and loose. Was it working? At last her demeanour changed.
She reverted back to her previous form. She smiled warmly. I could
almost believe that it was genuine. She was that gorgeous, nice person
again. Unaffected by her obvious awareness of her devastating beauty.
"So ... tell me," she said at last, what time do you have to get back to the office?"
"How about Monday?" I answered mischievously.
* * *
It was about a week ago that I was waiting for her to come over to
my apartment. At that time I had been thinking about our first sexual
encounter after lunch, in the downtown hotel. That had been intense.
She had aroused me beyond belief and turned me into a horny teen again.
I couldn't get enough of her. I was consumed by her. After getting out
of bed at 5:00 a.m. to go to the bathroom I had almost passed out. I
had had to reach out to support myself against the wall. Over-exertion,
probably. Perhaps I had gotten up too quickly. Not enough blood in the
brain. My knees had also been extremely stiff. I could barely walk.
Undoubtedly the new positions I had been introduced to.
As I was washing my hands before returning, I casually glanced in
the mirror. I didn't look very well. Kind of the way I had looked in my
twenties after returning home from all-night parties: pale, clammy, and
with dark circles around my eyes. An obtrusive vein below my left eye
always bulged purpler than usual after too much revelry. So it did then
too. I remember glancing at my watch and realizing that she would be
arriving in ten minutes. I had taken a double shot of Jack Daniels to
soothe my nerves, reflecting on what had happened next.
After barely checking out on time after an extended morning romp, I
had invited her to my apartment for the weekend. The intensity of our
lovemaking had reached epic proportions. We barely even got out of bed
anymore for food, bathroom, or phone. I had even volunteered to take
the first two days off the following week. She had begged me to stay
off work a third day, but I finally had to put my foot down. I had to
show up on Wednesday.
"I'll get fired if I take another day off. And then where will I be?"
"In my arms," she said and smiled. "If you must go in then at least let me come over tonight."
"Sure, darling. I'd love that. How about 8:00?"
"Wonderful. I'm really looking forward to that."
I was late for work. It had taken me a long time to get dressed.
Every cell in my body seemed to be sore. Luckily, she had helped me
with my tie and jacket before we left together.
* * *
"Maybe you should have stayed home until you got over whatever it
is you have," said the boss. The receptionist had also given me a
strange look after I had greeted her cheerfully, and continued to my
office.
"What do you mean?" I had asked him.
"You look like you've got the plague. Is it the Black Death or AIDS?"
"Very funny. I'm just a little under the weather."
"A little? I think you should maybe ... Never mind. Never mind. Route
23 is having major problems. Get on that before you do anything else."
The rest of the morning was a blur. Trouble-shooting owner-operators through glitches, trying to answer the backlog of e-mails.
Near the end of the day the CFO came in to ask me about something.
I suspected the reason for invading my privacy was not a strong one. We
didn't like each other. I suspect that his antipathy had come from my
project; he had opposed it from the start as being too expensive and
transitory, but been overruled by the boss. The bean-counter had
probably heard something from the others, wanting to check me out for
himself. As he was leaving, he stopped himself at the door.
"By the way," he said, "I heard it on good authority that you had some plastic surgery done."
"Uh huh," I said, waiting for the punch line.
"You thought you looked too young to be promoted, so you went for
gerontological augmentation." By this time I was becoming slightly
perturbed by my appearance. I had always taken pride in looking younger
than I was. My comeback may have been somewhat lame:
"At least, I don't have the need to go for penile enhancement surgery." He looked at me for a moment, smiled, and walked out.
* * *
Just before her arrival, I walked in the bathroom to check myself
out. I did seem to have more grey hairs and wrinkles, particularly
around my eyes. The skin sagged under my chin. But I did feel better
than a few days ago. Was I imagining the whole thing? Was it mid-life
vanity? My thoughts were interrupted by the intercom. Undoubtedly, my
lover.
* * *
"You look amazing," I said as I stared at her from head to foot.
"So-so young, but not so innocent." She kept her long, blue trench coat
slightly parted, revealing black, patent, lace-up, thigh-high stiletto
boots. A similarly, shiny black one-piece number hugged her curves with
a stretchy, mesh-like material accentuating her cleavage and abdomen
which was sporting a silver belly chain with a charm. A travel bag
draped over her left shoulder. She cocked her head slightly and the
cascading chain links of her leather collar jangled as her glistening,
purple lips parted to speak:
"So are you going to let me in, or do I have to force my way
through?" I motioned to take her bag, which she relinquished, before
bowing and sweeping my left arm to indicate that she was welcome and
should come in.
"So, what do you have in here? Whips and chains?" I asked her as I closed the door, and placed the heavy bag in the foyer.
"Something like that," she answered with a smile. As I helped her
off with her coat, I couldn't help but stare lingeringly at her
sculpted, pear-like, thong-exposed buttocks.
"On your knees, lover," she said softly, but firmly. I obeyed,
after which she placed a booted toe on my shoulder. "Stay here, until I
return." With that, she walked decisively to my bathroom and closed the
door. The swaying of her hips and butt almost distracted me. Almost. I
had nearly forgotten what I had resolved to do. I was close to the
travel bag on the floor, so I reached over to it. Unzipped the side
compartment. Ruffled through some junk and found it. The wallet. Then
the driver's license. Her name. Her address on the other side of town.
Her picture: an older-looking woman, perhaps fifty. And then her birth
date. April 11, 1911 ... How was that possible? What did this all mean?
"What are you doing?" asked a voice from behind me. I hadn't heard
the bathroom door open. The narrow space under the door was still
illuminated. But there she was. Hands on hips, electric-purple eyes
blazing like an acetylene torch. Unlike glimpsing at the sun, my eyes
were drawn to hers despite their intensity. I felt terrified of her,
but drawn to her, like a bird to a viper.
"I was just going to take what I needed, but I think I'll have some
fun first. I do like to punish and torment. Strip, lover." I was only
vaguely aware of removing each article of clothing, deliberately, and
slowly. I felt detached, like in a dream. Almost like it wasn't I.
Sure, a collar and leash were snapped to my neck, but I don't remember
being led to the bed, nor being bound to it spread eagle on my stomach.
I do recollect a gag being cinched tightly into my mouth and a paddling
and whipping that made my body writhe and jump. The pain hadn't been
that bad though. I was, both voyeur and subject.
"Ooh, I do like the way you respond. Time to have you on your
back," she purred. The restraints were temporarily released as I was
rolled over and re-secured.
"Time for a ride you'll never forget," she said. Mounting me
swiftly, she began moving up and down. Faster and faster. I was afraid
of slipping out and bending in half. The metal eyelets of her boots
were scraping my thighs raw. Both of these anxieties were quickly
superseded by a new one. I soon became conscious of an enormous
pressure on my chest. She wasn't on it, but I had trouble breathing.
Near-suffocation. Gradual weakening. My struggles against my fetters,
and gag-stifled cries were probably feeble at best. She looked at me
with a smile as the indigo of her eyes seared into my soul. And then I
noticed it. As she began arching her back and crying out in carnal
triumph, I noticed her face. It looked young. Fourteen, maybe fifteen
years old. At the moment of passing out, I was certain that I would
never waken again.
* * *
Hysterical sobbing. Barely coherent replies to questions. Those
were the first sounds that greeted my unexpected return to
consciousness.
"Y-y-yes. Heart attack or something. He g-g-grabbed his chest
before wheezing and falling off me. I-I managed to free myself and call
9-1-1. Is he dead?"
"No, maam. But he could have saved us all some trouble. Hey, creep. How old are you?"
It didn't register that I was the one expected to respond. He continued:
"Eighty? Ninety? How can a geezer like you get it up anyway? Huh? Viagra?"
I gradually became aware of the steel handcuffs behind my back. The
jackboot in the small of my back. I felt cold, still naked, on the
floor of my bedroom. He finally rolled me over and I could see several
people in the room, including a distraught young girl in my Ralph
Lauren bathrobe. I then tried focusing on the cop crouching over me.
"What's your name, creep?" he asked me. Somehow, it came out of my parched throat.
"Fucking wise guy. I'd know what to do with your kind ...."
"Hey, hey, hey, Mikey," said a third voice, "take it easy. Last
thing we want is for him to die in our custody." He turned to me:
"Why are you using that name?"
"Because ... because," it was difficult for me to talk. Too much
effort. Too hard to concentrate, to comprehend. I was tired.
Disoriented and drained. "Because that's who I am. I-I live here. Who
are all these people?"
"We're here to investigate a murder and rape. This girl," he said
pointing to the still sobbing girl with her hair hiding her down-turned
face, "says that you killed her father, tied her up, and raped her
repeatedly."
"What?" I managed to utter weakly.
"You say you didn't do it?"
"N-no. Of course not. But where is she? That crazy woman-thing?"
"What woman? Listen up. Consider yourself under arrest for the rape
of ... and the murder of ...." His voice seemed to be fading in and out. Or
did I just not want to hear? Age too; I do have trouble concentrating.
But there could be no mistake about the names. I had been charged with
murdering myself and violating a daughter that I did not have .....
Copyright ZZ (AK) |