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Over the last few weeks, I’d experimented with different running routes and by June, I’d established a favourite. Every morning, I’d run down our road, pass Mr Wilson coming back from the park with his dog, swing around the house on the corner with the bright blue shutters, then through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the park, and across the ornamental stone bridge over the carp pond.
After fifteen minutes, I’d be at the farthest end of the park, turning the corner by two tall oaks, one of which had been damaged in a storm and leant against the other, like a drunk leaning against a lamppost.
All through the previous month, I’d kept reading Abby’s journal. As I got past the half-way point, I noticed the tone becoming darker. It seemed that Abby thought she was being followed, maybe even stalked. She had a series of silent phone calls and more than once, she wrote that she noticed the same dark blue car parked outside in the street, late at night.
Once, she’d gone out to confront him, only to watch the tail lights quickly disappear down the road and around the corner when she opened the front door.
Her relationship with Terry seemed to be strained too. She hinted that he’d begun to think of her as more than a friend. Reading between the lines, it seemed like he’d hinted that he’d like her to move in with him, and give up her work, maybe get a conventional job. Abby seemed undecided, unable to resolve her work with having a long-term relationship.
I was starting to think that maybe they’d gone their separate ways. That would explain why she’d moved out so suddenly, without saying goodbye to Terry. Perhaps she’d just decided to move on.
The other possibility was darker. Perhaps they’d argued, fallen out. Terry looked like the tough, silent type. Perhaps he’d lost his temper. For all I knew, Abby could be buried under our patio. Or perhaps I’d been reading too many crime novels recently.
In any case, my idle speculation made me all the more surprised when Terry called and said that Abby had been in touch.
“Really?” I said, unable to hide my excitement. She was alive! Assuming that Terry wasn’t a violent axe murderer, of course.
“Listen, this thing you’ve got, that you said Abby left behind. Is it a journal?”
“Yes, a journal, exactly!” I blurted out. “Does she want it back then?”
“Yes, listen, if I come over, would you give it to me? I can pass it on to her, if that’s okay with you.”
I paused. It would be such an anticlimax, to simply hand it over to Terry and watch him drive off into the sunset without any closure, without a solution to the mystery.
“You know it’s quite personal, I’d rather hand it over myself.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” I added hastily, wary of hurting his feelings. “It’s just that I feel like she’d want me to hand it over to her directly. It really is quite a private journal. Or you could give me her number, and I can organise something with her myself.”
“No, that’s okay, I understand,” he said finally, although he didn’t say it with any conviction. “I’ve got a number for her now, so I’ll call her back and let you know.”
The conversation left me with a mixture of feelings: excitement at the thought that I might actually get to meet Abby, but there was also a sense of loss as I realised that it would mean handing over the journal. I was about three-quarters of the way through it now, and I resolved to try and finish reading it soon.
It was a warm, sunny afternoon, much too nice to be inside. I dragged the reclining chair out of the shed, carefully positioning it on the patio so that I was facing the sun.
Terry had done a great job of clearing the trees overhanging the fence, and the corner had become a perfect sun-trap. I took a sip of my drink before picking up the journal, and started to read.
Things with Terry have got, well, more complicated recently. It used to be simple: he’d drive me to and from my appointments, we’d chat like friends do. He wouldn’t pass comment on my lifestyle and I wouldn’t comment on his.
But recently, things have changed. It was quite subtle at first. He’d say things like: “don’t you ever get tired of seeing all these strange men in hotel rooms?” or “don’t you ever wish you had a normal relationship?”
Last night, he finally said what I think he’d wanted to say for some time. We were driving back from an appointment, along the mostly empty roads, the darkness occasionally broken by an oasis of light as we passed a filling station or an all-night store. He’d been quiet, since we left the hotel and that wasn’t like him. I knew him well enough by now to know there was something on his mind.
“Would you go out on a date with me?” he said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.
“A date?” I replied, as if it was the first time I’d ever heard that word.
Perhaps I ought to explain something at this point. I had a esat escort difficult childhood with a number of stepfathers coming and going. And without going into too many details, let’s just say some of them didn’t treat me as well as others. So although I’m straight I’ve always had trouble in trusting men, and forming relationships. In fact, in a lot of ways, I prefer the company of women.
So my lifestyle, if you want to call it that, suits me perfectly. I make a good living doing something I enjoy and am good at, and have plenty of no-ties, anonymous sex without having all of the commitments, responsibilities and risks of a proper relationship. In short, I like being independent, which is why I was so taken aback by Terry’s question.
Over the next few days, I went from feeling confused to feeling angry. Angry that he’d forced this decision on me, left me with the moral dilemma. Did he really see me as a girlfriend to take out on dates? Holding hands across the table at the local Italian restaurant while we talked about what kind of day we’d had? “Men, “I thought to myself. “Why did they always want to own you?”
I paused to take another sip of my orange juice. There was no breeze, and it was becoming a very hot afternoon, the sun beating down on me, warming every molecule of my body.
I was wearing the smaller of my two bikinis. It’s quite skimpy, and I’m generally not confident enough to wear it out in public, but it’s perfect for home use, especially with my newly trimmed bush. With my Irish genes and fair skin, it’s all to easy to get sunburnt, and I squirted some factor twenty onto my palm applying a liberal layer to my pale skin. After all the jogging, my legs felt pleasingly taut and toned, and I took my time, making sure every inch was oiled. My fingers lingered over my inner thighs, applying the lotion in lazy circles and felt a frisson of pleasure as they brushed against my taut bikini bottoms.
I looked around guiltily before pushing my sunglasses up over my nose and continued the journal.
Some men do want to control woman. Take R for example. You remember that rule one was that I never let myself be tied up? Well, I was never one for playing by the rules all the time, and as he was a cop that I’d been seeing for years I was prepared to break it to indulge his fantasy, which always started the same way.
“Oh it’s you. What do you want?” I’d say, answering the door to the hotel room, dressed in a slinky dressing gown, which I’d pull tight around my neck as he flashed his badge.
“Can we talk inside, Roxy?”
“What’s this about?” I’d say, stepping aside and shutting the door behind him.
“We’ve had some complaints. A woman fitting your description has been soliciting at the bar downstairs. Approaching respectable businessmen, and inviting them upstairs.”
“Wasn’t me, I’ve been here all evening. Just me and the mini-bar,” I’d say, indicating the martini on the bedside table.
“Listen, we both know it wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve got to take you in,” he’d say, pulling his handcuffs from his belt.
“You can’t be serious!” I’d whine. “Come on, give me a break.”
“Sorry, you’ve been warned before, now face the wall,” he’d say, as he grabbed my shoulders and spun me around.
“This is so unfair,” I’d say petulantly as I felt a firm hand between my shoulder blades, then my hands tugged behind my back.
“That’s it, don’t struggle,” he’d say, a hint of excitement in his voice as I felt the cool metal bracelets snap in place over my slim wrists.
“Come on R, “I’d plead as he spun me around to face him. “Do we have to do this?”
“The hotel manager was quite angry, I really have to,” he’d say, apologetically.
“Yeah, but can’t we come to some sort of arrangement, like last time?” I’d plead.
“Come on, I told you that was a mistake,” he’d reply as his eyes lingered over my boy, the thin blue silk of the dressing gown clinging to my curves.
“Come on, please. I admit I’ve been bad but can’t we just sort this out between us? Hmm?” I’d say, leaning forward and kissing his neck.
“I know I’ve been naughty but I can’t help the way I am,” I’d say as I pressed myself against him, my lithe body moulding around his firm contours. “You know, now that you have me all tied up and helpless, you could do anything you wanted with me. Anything. Nobody would know.”
“Stop this, it’ll be easier on you if you come quietly,” he’d gasp as my tongue traced the curve of his ear.
“Oh, I never come quietly. I yowl and scream like an alley cat, you know that,” I’d giggle, feeling his body responding to me.
Gosh, it was becoming hotter by the minute and I paused to take another sip of my drink. It was such a quiet afternoon, just the distant roar of traffic breaking the silence. Our house was at the end of the street, and as or neighbours were on holiday, I was completely on my own. I hate tan lines, and I wondered if I dare sunbathe topless.
I looked etimesgut escort around anxiously as I reached behind and unfastened my top, half expecting someone to leap out from behind the bushes. Slowly I rubbed lotion into my soft boobs, the skin even paler than the rest of my body. A contented sigh escaped my dry lips as my oily fingers skated over the smooth skin, and I shivered a little enjoying the novel sensation of sunshine on my naked boobs as I caressed myself.
“Please, you know I can’t do this,” he’d grunt as my warm body rubbed against his.
“I’ve been such a bad girl. I really need a firm hand, perhaps you should put me over your knee and give me a good spanking, hmm?” I’d tease, as my sharp little teeth tugged at his earlobe. “Can you imagine me wriggling and squealing as you spanked me? Begging you to stop.”
“Stop,” he’d groan as I slipped one of my hot thighs between his, sliding against him. I could feel his cock swell, pressing uncomfortably against his dark blue uniform trousers.
As I read, holding the journal in one hand, I squirted a generous amount of lotion into my hand and massaged it into my boobs. I cupped the soft flesh, squeezing it into a cone and flicking an oily thumb over my stiffening nipples. As I read I couldn’t resist pinching them a little, slowly coaxing them into hard little peaks.
“Come on, I know you want to, I can feel you,” I’d say seductively, my warm flesh pressing against his hardness as I kissed her way along his cheek.
“Stop it,” he’d repeat as my soft, plump lips brushed against his.
“Ooh, I can feel you, you’re all hard and tense, officer. Perhaps I can do something to relieve the tension, hmm?”
“You’re such a fucking tease,” he’d say as he grabbed my shoulders.
My lips would curl into a victorious smile, as he roughly tugged open my gown, briefly eyeing my shapely boobs encased in a lacy half-cup bra before pushing me onto my knees. With my hands still ‘cuffed, I could only wait and watch as he feverishly fumbled with his trousers, reaching inside to extract his angry-looking cock, already as hard as a rock…
I put the journal down as I lay back and closed my eyes, concentrating on my other senses. I could smell the rich coconut scent of the lotion mixing with the fragrance of the honeysuckle that climbed the fence. I could hear the lazy drone of bees as they pollinated the flowers that I’d planted in Spring, the birds twittering in the trees above, the distant roar of the airport.
In my wilder fantasies, I often wondered what it would feel like to be a whore, picked up and used by men to satisfy their deepest, darkest desires. I rolled one of my hard, little nipples between thumb and forefinger stoking the smouldering warmth between my legs as I imagined having to perform whatever sordid and shameful acts a client desired.
My pussy was throbbing, demanding my attention now and I quickly gave into temptation as I slid a hand between my hot thighs, my fingers tracing the swollen contours of my labia through the clinging bikini bottoms. My fingers lazily circled my mound as I imagined myself in Abby’s (presumably high-heeled) shoes: on my knees, my hands tied behind my back, the client’s throbbing erection bobbing in front of my lips, as he looked down at me with intensely hungry eyes.
My fingers circled a little faster as I imagined his satisfied grunts as I took his hot, throbbing shaft between my scarlet lips, slowly sliding up and down as he groaned happily.
Would he be satisfied with a blowjob? Or would he want something more? What would it feel like to be roughly thrown onto the hotel bed, face down, my hands still tied. Helpless to stop him as he flipped the dressing gown up, his rough hand stinging the smooth globes of my buttocks.
My fingers slid up and down my swollen cleft as I imagined him hooking aside my scandalously small panties and roughly pushing my knees apart, my pussy lips glistening in anticipation. I couldn’t resist inching my bikini to one side, making myself shiver by running a finger over the newly shaved skin.
I quickly eased my bikini bottoms down over my hips and kicked them off my legs, feeling wanton and deliciously wicked at being completely naked now.
I was aware I was groaning loudly now, but I just couldn’t stop myself as my fingers danced over the slick folds of my naked pussy, as my other hand toyed with my hardened nipples, plucking and twisting the hard little nubs with my slippery fingertips.
I slid a finger inside myself as I imagined his fat, swollen dick easing deep inside me. I pictured myself wriggling helplessly as he started fucking me roughly, telling me what a hot little whore I was. I writhed on the sun-longer, my hips gyrating, as I probed my velvety slit and gently flicked a thumb over my engorged lit. Soon my breath was coming in hoarse gasps as I imagined him fucking me harder and harder, the pressure building and building until I couldn’t take any more.
I ankara escort could almost hear his ecstatic cry as he came suddenly and loudly, emptying his hot spunk into me and the thought of that pushed me over the edge and I came, a warm flush of pleasure coursing through my body.
I lay there for several long minutes, savouring the little after-tremors that fluttered through my body, and the breeze cooling my skin. Through half-open eyes I could see my bikini lying limply beneath me on the wooden decking, evidence of my wanton nudity.
I was just thinking that I really ought to get my hot, sticky body into the shower when my thoughts were interrupted by the harsh ringtone of my mobile, and I suddenly found myself back in the real world. I picked it up and glanced at the screen.
“Hello? Terry?” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound too breathless.
“Hi Ellen, I just wanted to let you Abby’s been in touch. She said she’s happy to meet you, maybe in a week or so. If that’s okay with you of course. Have you got a pen? I’ll give you the directions…”
The big day had finally come. My heart fluttered in my chest like a butterfly in a jam jar when she walked into the diner. I knew it was her as soon as I saw her. She was tall with long, straight dark hair, and wearing a lemon yellow halter top and blue jeans that hugged her trim figure. My eyes weren’t the only ones that followed her as she saw me waving and made her way over. Every man in the diner (and most of the women) watched as she weaved through the tables.
“Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “Are you Ellen?”
“Yes, and you must be Abigail, have a seat,” I said, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers were slender and well-manicured.
A waitress that was hovering nearby came over and we both ordered coffee.
“Call me Abby,” she said, placing her bag on the chair beside her. “Thanks for coming all this way.”
“No problem, I guessed the journal must be important to you, and I just felt it was safer to hand it over myself,” I said, taking it out of my handbag, and handing it to her.
“Thanks,” she said. I watched her stuff it into her bright red beach bag. “I didn’t realise it was missing until I started unpacking. Where was it?”
“Behind the chest of drawers in the main bedroom.”
“Right,” she said, turning her head and staring out of the window at the car park. “I think I remember putting a pile of papers and books there, in the rush it must have fallen off the top and slid down there.”
She was about to say something but then paused when the waitress returned with two fresh cups of coffee.
Up close, she was every bit as attractive as I’d expected, but not in a pretty or ‘girl next door’ way. She was coldly beautiful, like a model with subtle make-up making the most of her prominent cheekbones and plump lips. Her dark eyes were as dark and shiny as her black coffee and they peered out from beneath long lashes, restlessly scanning the room as we talked, and glancing up at the door whenever someone came in. She was slim and neat. I watched her carefully rotating her coffee cup until the handle was perfectly parallel with the table’s edge.
I knew what she was going to ask, and I still wasn’t sure how I’d answer.
“So,” she said finally. “Did you read any of it?”
“A little. I didn’t know what it was at first. And then when I worked out it was a kind of diary, I wanted to see if I could use it to find you. It’s how I found Terry.”
“So, you know what I do for a living then?”
I nodded, feeling myself blush.
“It seems so detailed and personal. Why did you start writing it all down?”
“I always kept a diary as a kid. It’s always fascinated me, the idea of recording the details of each day of your life. And I met so many colourful, odd characters that I wanted to record them, before I forgot. Later, I began to think I might write a book or something. Maybe when I retired, you know.”
“Right, so I don’t mean to be rude, but how did you come to leave it behind?”
“That day I moved out was crazy. I was just in such a rush. It was my sister you see. I got a call from her husband saying she’d been in a car accident and could I come over. I just panicked. Just packed up enough stuff to see me through a couple of days and left.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yes, she’s fine now. It was a bad accident but she got away with just a broken leg.”
“But I don’t understand, the neighbours said you never returned.”
“Yes, well, there was a lot going on in my life at the time, I had some things I wanted to think over,” she said, cryptically.
“You’ve met him?”
“Yeah, he seems like a nice guy.”
“He is, he’s terrific. Loyal and dependable and good-natured. It wasn’t only that though. I had this feeling I was being followed. I know it sounds paranoid, but I think the police were watching me.”
“Why would they be doing that?”
“Well, I found out one of my clients was with the police. Quite high up, you know,” she said, leaning in closer and lowering her voice. I could smell her subtle perfume. “And I know you’ll think I’m crazy but I think he somehow found out about my journals. I think he was worried they might end up becoming public in some way.”
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