man. It was something she had never volunteered in our emails, and something I’d never asked.
I wondered when she’d last slept so easily with a man in the room. Clearly, there was something in her past that kept her away from men. I just didn’t know how horrible it could be. Whatever it was, though, it didn’t seem to affect her desire for sexual contact.
When it was clear that she was in a deep sleep and I had no hope of getting even a second of sleep myself, I gently got out of bed without disturbing her.
Her bedroom was almost completely dark, illuminated only by the screen-saver on her computer. It was a slideshow of pictures from various tropical beaches around the world. They looked to be stock photos, not ones she’d taken herself, and she’d never mentioned having traveled much in her life.
In fact, she’d never mentioned much of anything about her life prior to age 18. If I hadn’t been so guarded myself, I might have thought it odd.
As the photos faded in and out, the room lightened and darkened alternately. I watched Rachel’s sleeping form for a moment, as I pulled on my jeans and left her room.
When we arrived here, I didn’t get a chance to look around. Didn’t try. Didn’t care. All I wanted was her naked, beneath me, finally fulfilling my promise of giving her the fucking of a lifetime. I took her deep sleep as confirmation that I’d delivered.
I was thirsty so I found a glass, filled it with water from the tap, and guzzled it down before refilling it again. Sex always did that to me. I don’t know if it would be considered technically dehydration by a doctor, but it had to be something close.
She had a small kitchen, not much counter space, certainly less than I could deal with, but typical for a small one-bedroom apartment. She had a coffee machine with about a half-inch of room temperature stale coffee still in the carafe.
I opened her freezer to get some ice and saw that it was packed with low-calorie, low-fat microwaveable dinners.
I wanted something to eat, so I opened her refrigerator and found that it contained a half a dozen bottles of different kinds of salad dressings, a bag of romaine lettuce, two carrots and an avocado. No meat. Nothing hearty that would stick to my ribs.
I wasn’t in the mood for vegetables, but I found a container of fresh blueberries. I grabbed a handful and closed the door.
I went into her den. Going through her refrigerator was as nosey as I was going to get. My knack for finding interesting things in people’s houses had always served me well, but it’s never out of curiosity, it’s always out of necessity.
But those were surveillance and investigation related. I was doing no such thing with Rachel.
I was curious about her, but had no intention of invading her privacy. Her purse was on the kitchen counter. I could have rummaged through it and found out anything I wanted—her last name, who she banked with, and maybe some indication of where she worked.
Same with the small stack of incoming mail she had placed on the edge of a round table next to the small kitchen window that looked out over the parking lot. Any of those pieces of mail would have had her name on the outside, and who knows what kind of information inside?
I resisted.
I couldn’t stop myself from looking at her bookshelves, though, and the enormous collection of titles she’d amassed over the years. Thousands of them, arranged alphabetically by genre, just like a bookstore. It didn’t appear that she had anything rare, but what an eclectic collection it was. Hardbacks with all the dust jackets, paperbacks with most of the spines cracked. I wondered if she’d read them all or if she’d bought some of them used.
One shelf held a collection of contemporary erotic romance novels. I didn’t have any of them in the bookshop, but being an avid reader I recognized the titles from browsing online book retailers.
She had a modest collection of literature from abroad: French,
I wondered when she’d last slept so easily with a man in the room. Clearly, there was something in her past that kept her away from men. I just didn’t know how horrible it could be. Whatever it was, though, it didn’t seem to affect her desire for sexual contact.
When it was clear that she was in a deep sleep and I had no hope of getting even a second of sleep myself, I gently got out of bed without disturbing her.
Her bedroom was almost completely dark, illuminated only by the screen-saver on her computer. It was a slideshow of pictures from various tropical beaches around the world. They looked to be stock photos, not ones she’d taken herself, and she’d never mentioned having traveled much in her life.
In fact, she’d never mentioned much of anything about her life prior to age 18. If I hadn’t been so guarded myself, I might have thought it odd.
As the photos faded in and out, the room lightened and darkened alternately. I watched Rachel’s sleeping form for a moment, as I pulled on my jeans and left her room.
When we arrived here, I didn’t get a chance to look around. Didn’t try. Didn’t care. All I wanted was her naked, beneath me, finally fulfilling my promise of giving her the fucking of a lifetime. I took her deep sleep as confirmation that I’d delivered.
I was thirsty so I found a glass, filled it with water from the tap, and guzzled it down before refilling it again. Sex always did that to me. I don’t know if it would be considered technically dehydration by a doctor, but it had to be something close.
She had a small kitchen, not much counter space, certainly less than I could deal with, but typical for a small one-bedroom apartment. She had a coffee machine with about a half-inch of room temperature stale coffee still in the carafe.
I opened her freezer to get some ice and saw that it was packed with low-calorie, low-fat microwaveable dinners.
I wanted something to eat, so I opened her refrigerator and found that it contained a half a dozen bottles of different kinds of salad dressings, a bag of romaine lettuce, two carrots and an avocado. No meat. Nothing hearty that would stick to my ribs.
I wasn’t in the mood for vegetables, but I found a container of fresh blueberries. I grabbed a handful and closed the door.
I went into her den. Going through her refrigerator was as nosey as I was going to get. My knack for finding interesting things in people’s houses had always served me well, but it’s never out of curiosity, it’s always out of necessity.
But those were surveillance and investigation related. I was doing no such thing with Rachel.
I was curious about her, but had no intention of invading her privacy. Her purse was on the kitchen counter. I could have rummaged through it and found out anything I wanted—her last name, who she banked with, and maybe some indication of where she worked.
Same with the small stack of incoming mail she had placed on the edge of a round table next to the small kitchen window that looked out over the parking lot. Any of those pieces of mail would have had her name on the outside, and who knows what kind of information inside?
I resisted.
I couldn’t stop myself from looking at her bookshelves, though, and the enormous collection of titles she’d amassed over the years. Thousands of them, arranged alphabetically by genre, just like a bookstore. It didn’t appear that she had anything rare, but what an eclectic collection it was. Hardbacks with all the dust jackets, paperbacks with most of the spines cracked. I wondered if she’d read them all or if she’d bought some of them used.
One shelf held a collection of contemporary erotic romance novels. I didn’t have any of them in the bookshop, but being an avid reader I recognized the titles from browsing online book retailers.
She had a modest collection of literature from abroad: French,
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