Hooker
by Harold
Foreword
This story is a sequel to the Want Ad/Palmistry/Therapy series. You needn't
have read the others to know what's going on in this one and the only character
common to the others is the main character, Bob. Reading the others will,
however, give you some insight into who Bob is and why he's doing what he's
doing.
There was something wrong with this picture. The woman standing on the
street corner was wearing a navy blue dress which hung just below her knees,
navy blue hose, and medium heels. Her blond hair was freshly permed, and just
barely brushed her shoulders. She stood stiffly erect with her feet together
and her eyes cast down. Her hands were clasped behind her and the handcuffs
which restrained them looked huge on her slender wrists.
It wasn't the sight of a woman standing on the corner in handcuffs that
was odd. It was common to see hookers being arrested on the avenue. What was
odd was that this woman didn't look like a hooker. The hookers who worked the
avenue were universally unattractive. They plied their trade on the avenue
because is it was the only place they could find customers who were desperate
enough to pay for their services.
The only attractive hookers on the avenue were police decoys. Everyone
knew this except the Johns, who were even dumber than the hookers. When the
police would run their occasional decoy operations, a guy could be getting
arrested twenty feet away and another would walk right up to the decoy, make a
solicitation, and be arrested himself. They didn't want to be seen with a
hooker and thought they could achieve this end by not seeing anything
themselves.
I drove the avenue every day on my way to and from work and knew most of
the regular hookers by sight. I would see one of the hookers being arrested
every once in a while. The ladies all knew the drill and when arrested would
usually lean, handcuffed, against a tree or utility pole or sometimes just sit
on the curb while waiting for the paddy wagon. If they were on drugs, they
would fidget continuously. One or two cops would stand nearby, bored and
likewise waiting for the wagon.
That's what was wrong with the scene on the corner. This woman was
attractive--not gorgeous, just pretty much normal looking. Her clothing was
conservative, not provocative, and clean. I had never seen her before. She
stood erect and unmoving, looking like nothing so much as a middle class
housewife. A plain clothes officer stood next to her. Such women normally
wouldn't be seen on the avenue. What was she doing there? Why had she been
arrested?
I was on my way to the bank to make the day's deposit. After I
finished, I drove by the corner again. The woman was not in sight, but a paddy
wagon was parked at the curb. I assumed she was locked inside.
I drove on home. The scene on the street corner was just something I
had glimpsed while driving by, but I couldn't get the woman out of my head. I
wondered if she had turned to prostitution to get herself out of some financial
bind, but it didn't make sense. Why the avenue? She could make more money with
less hassle from the cops by working the hotels. Not only that, the avenue was
dangerous. More than one of the girls who worked there had been fished out of
the river minus a limb or two. The girls on the avenue were there because they
had run out of options. This woman's dress and general demeanor indicated
resources unavailable to the usual avenue hooker.
I watched the sidewalks every day for the next couple of weeks, hoping
to see her again. When the avenue girls were busted, they'd be back on the
street in the next day or two, so I thought there was some chance of spotting
her.
Although I drove the avenue every day and was familiar with all the
regulars, I had never actually talked to any of the hookers. They were not ones
such as would inspire lust, and while I had sympathy for their plight, I wanted
nothing to do with them. This woman was different. There was something about
her. The street corner tableaux had burned itself into my brain and the unknown
woman had become the main character in my erotic fantasies. I wondered what I
would do if I actually saw her again. Would I stop and talk to her? Perhaps
inquire as to her price?
About a month later I was buying a loaf of bread. I was in the checkout
line behind a woman with a full cart who had apparently noticed my single item.
"Would you like to go in front of me?"
I pulled my head out of the clouds and looked to see who was talking to
me. It was her. I stared.
"Do I know you?" she asked. It was clear that I recognized her, but she
couldn't place me.
"We've never met, but I've seen you before."
"Oh, where?"
"On the avenue at 14th street. You were wearing handcuffs at the time."
She turned bright red, wheeled her cart about, and got in the farthest
checkout line. "Wait...," I called. She ignored me.
"Well, you really blew that one," I told myself. I thought about
following her, but that would be stupid. I would only dig myself deeper into
her bad graces by trying to force contact. I could only hope that fortune would
provide me with a future occasion.
Her departure had left me next in the check out line, whereas she was
now at the end of another line. It would be a while before she came out. I
paid for my bread and left.
I decided to increase the odds of a future encounter by finding out
where she lived. I sat in my car and waited. My back was to the store and I
watched the door in the mirror. It was a full fifteen minutes before she
emerged. I watched as she pushed her cart full of sacks along the front of the
building toward the edge of the lot. Even though there were a lot of cars in
the lot and people coming and going, I didn't want to chance drawing her
attention by starting my engine. I would wait until she was occupied starting
her own.
As she neared the edge of the parking lot, rather than turning toward
the last row of parked cars, she pushed her cart onto the sidewalk and
disappeared around the corner of the building. For a moment I was surprised
that she hadn't parked in the lot, then I realized there was no parking on the
street. She hadn't come in a car. She was on foot. Damn. There was no
inconspicuous way to follow a pedestrian in a car. I would either have to drive
past her multiple times or park and watch until she turned a corner, then move
to a new vantage point. I headed home.
I had learned a couple of things. She apparently didn't have a car.
Pushing a cart as full as hers over the rough sidewalks in this area is not
something you would do if you had other options, although I suppose her car
could have been in the shop. The other thing I learned was that she lived
nearby. There had been ice cream in her cart and it was a warm day, so she
wasn't going too far. Since she had been pushing the cart north on the west
side of the building, it was also reasonable to assume she lived to the north
and west.
I wondered if she had a family. I hadn't paid all that much attention
to the stuff in her cart, but hadn't seen anything that would specifically
indicate children. Nevertheless, the quantity of stuff she had purchased
indicated she was shopping for more than one.
As I drove home, I started thinking about the shopping cart. Although I
knew almost nothing about this woman, I had a feeling she wasn't someone who
would steal a shopping cart. I drove back to the store and parked on a side
street about two blocks north of the store. About ten minutes later, I saw her
in my rear view mirror, pushing the empty cart back toward the store. She
walked right by me and I wished I had been wearing a hat to pull down over my
face. I didn't want her to catch me spying on her. My concern was unwarranted.
She passed by without a glance. I'm not even sure she knew I was there.
This was unusual behavior for someone who lived near the avenue. Most
of the women I knew made sure they knew who was around them and some made a
point of making eye contact with anyone they felt might be threatening.
Nevertheless, it made a consistent package. Being oblivious to her surroundings
and returning the shopping cart seemed to fit together. She hadn't been here
long.
After she was out of sight, I moved the car. I was on a street just
east of the one running north from the store and had by chance parked on the
street she lived on, but hadn't seen what house she came out of. I parked at
the other end of the block and awaited her return.
After a bit, I saw her turn onto the street where I was parked and walk
toward me. About half way down the block, she entered a small bungalow.
I waited a few minutes, then drove past the house and returned home. I
hadn't seen anything in the yard or on the porch that told me anything.
When I got home, I looked up the address in the cross reference. The
name attached to that address was Gregory Silva. I called the phone number
listed with the address.
"May I speak to Gregory?"
"I'm sorry, he doesn't live here." It sounded like her voice, but I
couldn't be sure. She had only spoken a few words to me.
"Is this 1824 Spruce?"
"Yes, but he doesn't live here."
"Where can I find him?"
"I don't know. He lives out of state, but I don't have his number."
"Okay, thanks. Sorry to bother you."
I'm not sure what I would have done if Gregory had answered. Probably
told him he'd been specially chosen to win a trip to Cancun and all he had to
pay for were the airline tickets, meals, tips, and hotel room.
I had thought about trying to keep her on the phone in the hopes of
getting a conversation going, but decided to cut it short. I didn't want her to
be able to recognize my voice if I encountered her again.
Gregory may have moved out of state, but it was curious that his listed
telephone number still rang at his listed address.
I decided it was time to stop being obsessive and return to real life.
I went out to mow the lawn. After I finished, I showered, brought the mail in,
sorted the bills by due date, and tossed the junk mail in the trash. Even from
the trash I could still hear it screaming: Urgent! Dated Material, Open
Immediately! I ignored the clamor and put my loaf of bread to use, making a
sandwich. I got a beer from the fridge and sat down to eat.
I hadn't even taken a bite of my sandwich when the doorbell rang. I got
up and headed for the front door, carrying my sandwich in one hand so it would
be obvious to whomever it was that he had interrupted my lunch.
My jaw dropped and I nearly dropped my sandwich. She was standing on my
porch, right in front of me. I managed to gather my wits quickly enough to get
the first word in.
"Would you like some lunch?" I asked, proffering the sandwich.
"No, thank you."
"Would you like to come in?"
"I don't think so."
"Would you like to go out?"
"No."
"Well, what do you want?"
My little twenty questions game was carried out almost by reflex. If I
had had more time to think, I would have asked her questions that would have had
her agreeing with me. Nevertheless, I had gained some psychological advantage.
I had her answering questions and now she would have to say whatever it was that
she came to say in response to my demand for an explanation of her presence.
"I want to know why you're stalking me."
Was I stalking her? I had maybe an hour total invested in today's
activities. That hardly qualified as stalking, although it was the result of
several weeks of obsessing about her.
"And how do you come to the conclusion that you're being stalked?" I
wanted to know more about where she was coming from and what she wanted. The
way she had phrased her question struck me as odd. She hadn't demanded that I
stop, she just wanted to know why, but I'm sure a demand to cease and desist was
next on the agenda. I would have to see if I could deflect her before she got
that far.
"You got behind me in line at the grocery store, you followed me home,
you know my address and phone number. How long have you been following me?"
That helped. She didn't realize the store was a chance encounter.
Apparently she had seen me when I'd watched her from the car, and also
recognized my voice on the phone. I'd been wrong about her not being aware of
her surroundings. She was, if anything, more aware than average. On the other
hand, I'd been right about her taking the cart back, so at least some of my
speculations about her had been correct.
I wasn't surprised that she had found me. I hadn't bothered to block my
number when I'd called hers and I was in the phone book. Given that she'd
recognized my voice, it wasn't surprising that she'd located me. I was
surprised to find her here on my doorstep. She was right here, talking to me.
I had to somehow take advantage of this opportunity. I had to make her want to
see me again after she left. It probably wasn't going to be easy.
"That's going to take a bit of explanation. Are you sure you wouldn't
like to come in?"
"No, I don't think so."
"In that case, let's sit here on the porch. Would you like something to
drink?"
"No, thank you."
I wasn't being too successful at laying obligations on her, although I
did get her to sit. I cast about for another tactic. How had she gotten here?
I looked about and spotted the bicycle leaning against the tree next to the
curb.
"Before we go any further, we'd better get your bike up on the porch.
It's not safe where it is."
"Nobody would take it while we're watching."
"You're not from around here, are you?" I headed down the steps to get
the bike. I leaned it against the wall behind me and sat down at the table
across from her. I now had control of her transportation.
"No. I just moved here about a month ago."
"And what brings you here?"
"Divorce. I had to have a cheaper place to stay. You still haven't
answered my question."
"When did you first become aware that you were being stalked?"
"Today."
"And how long do you think it's been going on?"
"You said you saw me arrested. You must have been following me then if
you saw that."
"So you think I've been watching you for weeks?"
"Well, yes. You know my address and phone number, when I go to the
store...everything."
"There is one thing I don't know. I don't know your name."
"I don't believe you."
"It's true. I have no idea what your name is. Since your phone is
listed to some guy named Silva, I could speculate that your last name is Silva,
but I could be wrong."
"You are."
"I have even less idea what your first name is. What is your name?"
"I don't think I want to say."
"Well, at least tell me your first name. It can't hurt. If I'm lying,
I already know. If I'm not, then things are not what you think. You know my
name, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Alright. It's Rachel; but I won't tell you my last name."
"That's okay. At least I know what to call you. Now, let me tell you
how my interest in you came about. Then you can do some explaining of your
own."
"What do you mean?"
"We'll get to that, but first let me give you some background." I
explained that it was just by chance that I had witnessed her arrest, and only
about 30 seconds of it at that, and how it had drawn my interest because it
struck me as so unusual. I told her I had forgotten about the whole thing
(which wasn't true) until I had by chance found myself behind her in line at the
store. Even then, I probably wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't spoken to me.
Her reaction to my telling her that I'd seen her in handcuffs piqued my
curiosity even further. I had to know more about her, how she had come to be
arrested, etc.
"You mean you've only seen me once before today?"
"That's exactly what I'm telling you. Until today, all I'd seen of you
was a passing glimpse of your arrest. You're more observant than average, yet
you never saw me before today. Surely you'd have noticed me before if I was
stalking you."
"But you followed me home."
"Exactly. If I'd been following you all these weeks, wouldn't I already
know where you lived? I wanted to meet you, but didn't know if I'd ever even
see you again. I thought that if I knew where you lived, I could improve the
odds."
"So you saw me in handcuffs and wanted to meet me."
"I'll admit being attracted to women in handcuffs, but there was more to
it than that. Your reaction when I mentioned it at the store was what really
got me going. You became a mysterious woman with a secret. Now that I've
actually met you and talked to you, you're even more mysterious."
"Why?"
"You present all these contradictions. On one level, you seem naive and
you don't know how to handle yourself in this neighborhood, yet you pay
attention to everything that goes on around you and don't make it obvious that
you're watching. You strike me as being a bit shy, yet when you think you're
being stalked, you come and ring my doorbell to confront me. That's so brave
and so stupid, I truly don't know what to think of you."
"So what should I have done?"
"What should you have done? Almost anything else. You don't have enough
to go to the police with, so you check it out from a distance. Call me on the
phone, or have some guy you know call me or come by and see me. There are lots
of ways to handle a situation like that without putting yourself in danger."
"Am I in danger?"
"Of course not, but you would be if you were really being stalked."
"But if I'm not in danger, what's the problem?"
"Rachel, that's nuts. The only thing I can figure is that you knew
before hand that I'm not truly stalking you, or you have a thing for dangerous
men."
"As long as they're not too dangerous."
What did she mean by that? Was she flirting? Normally I would have
viewed a response like that as in invitation to raise the stakes, but with her I
couldn't tell. She had said it so matter-of-factly that her intent was
unreadable.
"I don't know where you moved here from, but the dangerous men around
here are very dangerous. You can't pull this kind of stunt and assume you'll
survive." That seemed to shock her.
"So what...so what about you? Are you dangerous?"
"That's something you'll have to decide for yourself." This was the
first time she had faltered. Up until now, she had spoken with complete self
assurance. But with this sentence, there was a catch in her throat. If it had
been delivered smoothly and suavely, it would have been an obvious come on line,
but it wasn't. Her delivery was forced and it was like there was a major lump
in her throat. There was just the faintest touch of "Take me, you fool" in
it, but also a bit of apprehension, maybe some disappointment, and something
else I couldn't quite put my finger on, something like an unsuccessful attempt
to sound detached..
The one thing I was certain of was that I was that I had witnessed a
breach in her defenses. I was getting to her. I knew what to do next: send her
home. "Rachel, it's time for you to go." I picked up her bike and carried it
to the sidewalk. She followed me down the steps and I handed her the bike.
Time to close the sale. This called for physical contact. I took her
by the shoulders, turned her toward me, and looked into her eyes. "Shall I
forget your phone number?"
"Call me," she said, and pedaled off.
I returned to my lunch, but ate it without being aware of doing so.
Rachel had set my mind (among other things) on fire. She was more mysterious
now than ever. She was obviously intelligent, but she was so dumb. I wanted to
protect her. I wanted to possess her. I wanted her to stand before me in
handcuffs just the way she had stood when I first saw her.
It would be at least fifteen or twenty minutes before I could call her,
since it would take her that long to get home. Realistically, I couldn't call
her for a couple of days. It wouldn't do to get over anxious at this early
stage. Today was Saturday. Tuesday sounded about right.
Tuesday finally arrived. Early in the evening, I called Rachel. She
seemed reluctant, obviously having had second thoughts about the whole thing,
but I finally talked her into going to dinner with me on Friday.
I picked Rachel up at her house Friday evening. I took her to a
restaurant downtown that was nice but not intimidating. It was a place where I
could get wine by the half bottle. I suspected that Rachel wasn't much of a
drinker, so I wanted a quantity that would help get her talking, but not get her
looped.
I wanted to know why she had been arrested, and her reaction in the
grocery store told me she was sensitive about the subject. In the meantime, I
learned whatever else I could about her. Her divorce had been accompanied by a
bankruptcy, so she hadn't gotten much in the way of a settlement. Gregory Silva
was a friend of a friend who needed to maintain a legal residence in the city
for business reasons. He had agreed to let Rachel live in the house he
maintained for that purpose and use his phone line. That explained the Gregory
Silva deal. He didn't really figure into her life except as absentee landlord.
Rachel didn't have a car and rode the bus to and from work and used her bicycle
to get around the neighborhood. She was a librarian and worked downtown at the
main library.
Finally, over dessert, I asked her about her arrest.
"It was all a big mistake. My lawyer says we can get it thrown out."
"So what happened?"
"It was my first day here in this neighborhood and I got off at the
wrong stop coming home from work. Once the bus pulled away, I realized I wasn't
at the right spot, but didn't know how to get to the one I wanted. There was
this guy standing there, so I started asking him directions. He told me how to
get home, and as I turned away, he asked me 'how much?'. I asked him 'how much
what?" and he said 'you know, how much for a blow job?' I couldn't believe it.
So I told him, 'it's normally only a fifty dollars, but for you, it's a
thousand' and he arrested me for soliciting. Then he put handcuffs on me and
called a paddy wagon."
"Did the cop see you get off the bus?"
"I think so. I don't see how he could have really thought I was a
hooker."
"Part of the problem was that you asked him for directions. Some of the
hookers are pretty brazen, but others are more circumspect. They ask for the
time, or a light, or directions or something to break the ice. He probably
would have ignored you if you hadn't approached him. I doubt he really thought
you were a hooker, but when you insulted him, he arrested you."
"When I insulted him! He insulted me first. He asked me for a blow
job. He deserved to be insulted."
"Rachel, the cops don't look at it that way. Their attitude is
something like, 'Your honor, it all started when the defendant hit me back'.
There's also the possibility that he really wanted a blow job and your refusal
pissed him off. Who's your lawyer?"
"Ed Gallagher. He's a public defender."
"Wouldn't you feel better with your own lawyer?"
"Yes, but I can't afford one. I had to spend the night in jail as it
was and my daughter Gretchen was home alone. I couldn't come up with bail until
morning. The worst part is that the school social worker somehow found out
about it and is trying to get me declared as an unfit mother."
"You could probably be declared unfit for naming your daughter
Gretchen."
"That wasn't entirely my doing. It was her father's grandmother's
name."
"Surely you had veto power."
"You don't know my ex."
"Why does the social worker think you're unfit?"
"Because I got arrested for prostitution. I told her I'm innocent, but
I don't think she believes me."
"When's your court date?"
"In a little over a week."
"I think you should talk to my lawyer."
"I don't think I need to. Ed says he can get me off. Even if I lose,
he says it would just be a small fine on a first offense."
"Hello. Earth to Rachel. You're going into court against a cop with a
'he said, she said' defense and a public defender? I'm making an appointment
for you in the morning."
"You don't need to do that."
"Somebody needs to. Do you realize the consequences if he screws up and
you get convicted? If this ever happens again..."
"It won't ever happen again."
"It happened this time. Next time you'll have a prior. Not only that,
but a conviction this time will give the social worker all she needs to get your
daughter taken away."
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes. Rachel, you seem to think that because you're innocent, you
have nothing to worry about. If things worked like that, you wouldn't be in
this situation in the first place. A public defender won't cut it. This is one
of those occasions when you need to use a cannon to kill a mosquito. This
mosquito carries malaria."
I took Rachel home after dinner. The scene on her porch was a bit
awkward. She was obviously ambivalent about asking me in. The evening had
ended sooner than she had expected, and although she had had a good time and
obviously wanted to talk to me some more, she was apprehensive about letting
things go too far too soon. I solved her problem for her and begged off as
gracefully as possible, returning home after promising to have my lawyer call
her.
Monday morning I gave John, my lawyer, a call and explained the
situation. He agreed that it shouldn't be handled by a public defender and told
me he would give her a call. I asked him if there would be any problem getting
Rachel acquitted. He told me he would have to talk to her and gather some
facts, but he was quite confident it could be accomplished easily. I was
relieved to hear this. Although I believed Rachel, there were no witnesses and
it was only her word against the cop. John assured me it was no problem. I
hung up the phone, much relieved. I wanted the next person who locked handcuffs
on Rachel to be me.
That evening I heard from Rachel. She thanked me for having John call
her and said he'd been most reassuring and that she felt much better about the
whole thing. I told her I was glad to hear it. She wanted to know if I would
testify since I'd been a witness to her arrest.
"I doubt it," I told her. "All I saw was you and the cop standing on
the street corner as I drove by. About the only thing I could testify to is
that you didn't look like a hooker. I suppose John could call me as a witness,
but that's up to him."
"So he didn't discuss it with you?"
"Of course not. Rachel, John doesn't discuss client's cases."
"But I thought since you were paying him..."
"No. You're the client. That's all that matters. Your discussions
with him are private. If he discussed your case with me, I would have reason to
question his ethics and I would need a new lawyer." I was surprised when Rachel
had asked me about testifying, but realized that it was her way of bringing up
the subject of how much John would tell me about her case. It was obvious that
Rachel was worried about this. At first I thought her concern was naive, almost
comical, but the more I thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed from her
point of view. She knew very little about either of us.
"Look," I continued, "I know this is one of those situations where you
need the help, but it makes you feel obligated and uncertain to accept it.
First of all, you need to know that John is absolutely ethical. The only things
I'll learn about your case are what you tell me. He would be appalled to know
we were even having this discussion. Secondly, it's not likely to cost me
anything. My business pays him a monthly retainer and we don't need him all
that often, so I can call in the occasional favor. We're old friends and some
day he'll call me for a favor and he knows I'll take care of him."
"That makes me feel better. I didn't want to look a gift horse in the
mouth, but it really does make me uncomfortable."
"I understand. I'd still like to go out with you, but only if you want
to. I don't want you to feel obligated."
"No, that's fine. I'd like to."
"Friday evening?"
"Alright."
Friday came and I took Rachel to dinner and a movie. She seemed
somewhat distracted all evening. I thought it had to do with her court date,
which was the next Tuesday. I kept trying to reassure her about it, but to no
effect. I finally realized there had to be something else going on. I could
understand her getting all worked up the night before she went to court, but she
didn't go until next week. Once I figured this out, I began trying to find out
what was really going on. I was worried that it was me. It wasn't.
"The social worker interviewed Gretchen at school today."
"Can she do that? I thought the school needed your permission for that
sort of thing."
"She does, but I signed a consent form at the beginning of the year for
her to receive counseling. I thought it would be a good idea with the divorce
and everything."
"So what happened?"
"She started asking Gretchen all sorts of questions. She asked it I'd
ever hit her, asked if I'd ever had men over all night, if I ever seemed to have
extra money, if I did drugs, etc."
"That sounds rather hamfisted."
"Gretchen didn't have any trouble figuring out where she was going with
it. She answered every question with 'go fuck herself'."
"I must say, I agree with Gretchen, but I doubt that it did your case
any good."
"No, it didn't. The social worker has the whole administration all up
in the air about Gretchen's hostility."
"Oh, Jesus. She just lost one parent, so they try to take away her
other one, then accuse her of hostility. Who is this social worker? Is she
evil, or incompetent?"
"Her name is Gayle Robbins. I think she's both. Mainly, she's
incompetent, but she's willing to do evil to hide the fact of her incompetence."
"I want you to call John Monday morning. You need to withdraw that
consent form you signed, and..."
"I can do that on my own. I don't need John for that, and besides, he's
already doing enough and I don't want to be a burden on your relationship."
"Rachel, this is about your daughter. We'll sort out who owes what to
whom later. Right now, you need to put a stick in Miss Gayle Robbins spokes,
and John has a bigger stick than you do. One thing that scares the hell out of
school administrators and social workers is lawyers. They hate getting sued."
I took Rachel home and walked her to her door. She looked up at me
expectantly and I pulled her to me, intending to kiss her. Her body seemed to
melt against mine and I ended up kissing her on the forehead and just holding
her. She said nothing and made no sound, but tears streamed down her cheeks. I
was once again overcome with a desire to protect her, but also to possess her.
I reminded myself to keep my priorities straight. Protection now, possession
later. After a bit, I unwrapped my arms from around her and opened her door.
"Thank you. I needed for someone to hold me."
"Glad I could help." I walked back to my car.
Rachel called me Monday evening. She had talked to John and he had
called the school and put the fear of God (or at least lawsuits) into them. He
told them that the consent form was now null and void and that no one was to
interview Gretchen without Rachel's written consent, and that if any attempt was
made to do so, his process server would pay each and every one of them a visit
the next day.
Later in the day, John had managed to contact Gayle's supervisor and
read her the riot act. Apparently the social worker was employed by a different
department and wasn't under the direct authority of the principal. He learned
that the school principal had done the same thing earlier and Gayle had been
informed that she would be fired if she approached Gretchen again.
Rachel told me she was relieved to have Gayle out of her hair, but she
was still nervous about her court appearance in the morning. John had told her
it would be not problem, but she still wanted it over with. She asked me if I
would be there.
"Of course not," I told her.
"Good. I was afraid you might come. I didn't want you to see me being
accused of prostitution."
I slept fitfully that night. Even though I had complete faith in John,
I was concerned about Rachel. I was rather annoyed with myself for getting all
worked up over this, but as I thought about it, I realized I'd been letting
myself get worked up over Rachel since that first day I saw her on the avenue.
Rachel called me at work about noon. Everything had gone fine. John
had forced the cop to admit that it was he who had brought up the blow job. The
judge threw it out and gave the cop a lecture, expressing the opinion that the
wrong person had been charged. He said it was obvious that Rachel's reply was a
put down rather than a serious solicitation.
There was one odd thing. Gayle had attended the proceedings. When the
judge tossed the case out, she had gotten up and stomped out of the courtroom.
Rachel was sort of glad she was there to see it. Now she would have to concede
Rachel's innocence.
I suggested we go out that evening and celebrate, but Rachel said she
had to work tomorrow and it was a school day for Gretchen, so she couldn't stay
out late. She suggested we wait until Friday. Gretchen was going to spend the
weekend at a friend's house, leaving Rachel free for the weekend. The
implications of this were obvious. Rachel didn't know it yet, but although she
wouldn't be burdened with looking after Gretchen, she wasn't exactly going to be
free.
Friday when I got home from work, I got cleaned up and dressed, then
called Rachel and told her I was on my way. I picked her up at her house and we
went to a nice restaurant (one that featured full bottles of wine) and discussed
the events that had led up to the present moment.
"Sometimes," Rachel said, "I think this whole thing happened to bring us
together. I mean, if I hadn't gotten arrested, you wouldn't have noticed me,
and we wouldn't be here now. But then, sometimes I think it was the other way,
that when I was arrested, you came along as a means to save me. And then
sometimes I think it all just happened."
"I find the first choice more flattering, but suspect the third one is
more accurate."
"Whichever, I'm glad I'm here."
"So am I."
After dinner I helped Rachel into the car. She didn't need any help,
but seemed to enjoy the attention.
"Where to now?"
"My house. I'm taking you home for the weekend."
"Bob, I'm not sure I should."
"Don't play games, Rachel. On Tuesday, you made it clear you were
available for the whole weekend. Well, now you're not."
"I'm not?"
"No. You're going to be quite occupied."
We arrived at my house and I led Rachel inside.
"Bob, this is gorgeous."
This was true. My wife, Meg, and I had bought it as our dream house
several years before her death. It was a turn of the century stone house which
was fully restored. Mahogany woodwork, brass and crystal chandeliers, and
stained and leaded glass were everywhere.
I made Rachel a drink, gave her a tour, then led her back to the living
room. I lit some candles, then turned out the chandelier. I took her drink
from her and led her by the hand to the center of the room.
"I was wondering when you'd make your move."
"This is isn't going to be like what you're used to, so just go with
it." Without speaking further, I stepped behind Rachel and positioned her as I
wanted her, squaring her shoulders, moving her feet together, and turning her
head so she faced forward. I pulled her hands behind her and locked the
handcuffs around her wrists.
"Bob, what are you doing?"
"I want to see you as I first saw you."
"I'm not sure about this."
I stepped in front of her, took her head in my hands, and looked into
her eyes. "Rachel, you have a choice. You can go or you can stay, but if you
stay, you will be in my charge."
"What if I want to go?"
"Then I'll take you home and you'll spend the weekend alone, wondering
what it would have been like...and so will I."
"If I stay?"
"If you stay, you will obey."
Rachel looked a bit dubious at this, so I told her, "You don't have to
decide now. You can leave any time you want. It will be my job to make you
want to stay. It will be your job, up to the point at which you decide to
leave, to do whatever I ask."
"Alright."
I sat down in a chair at the side of the room directly in front of her
and watched her.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm looking at you."
"Why?"
"Because I find you beautiful. I like to look at you, and I like it
even better now that you're locked in my handcuffs."
"You're just going to look at me?"
"Don't be so impatient. This isn't going to be a quickie. We have all
night, and the next day and the next. I don't like for these things to be over
with in fifteen or twenty minutes. Now, if you please, be silent."
I watched Rachel in the flickering candle light. She stood just as she
had when I had first seen her--erect, eyes cast down, wrists locked behind her.
Every once in a while, she would look up and meet my gaze, become embarrassed,
and look down again. There was something about Rachel when she was embarrassed.
She embarrassed easily and she was so sexy when she blushed.
After I had studied her sufficiently, I approached her again. I buckled
a collar around her throat and locked it.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm locking my collar on you."
"Why?"
"Because it, like that handcuffs, makes you mine. Also, I like how it
looks."
"This is weird."
"Do you want to leave?"
"I didn't say that."
"So how does it make you feel?"
"Embarrassed, but aroused, too."
"Good. Now please be quiet."
I began unbuttoning her dress.
"What are you doing now?"
"I'm undressing you. That should be obvious."
"But, I mean...why?"
"Why? Why does any man undress a woman."
"No, I mean, what are you going to do now?"
"It would certainly spoil the fun if I told you." I unlocked one
handcuff and slipped her dress off her arms, then locked it back around her
wrist. "Rachel, I asked you not to speak, didn't I?"
"Yes."
"There are consequences if we don't do our jobs. If I don't do mine,
you'll leave. If you don't do yours, there are consequences as well."
"Such as..."
"I'm going to gag you."
"Bob, no."
"Then you should leave."
"But, you're being...I don't know."
"Rachel, you're being dominated, not brutalized. Now you have a choice
to make. Submit or leave."
I held the gag to her lips. "Open your mouth, Rachel," I said softly.
She opened her mouth and I pushed the gag into place, buckling the strap behind
her neck.
I stepped behind her again and unhooked her bra. I removed the
handcuffs and slipped the bra off, then pulled her hands behind her again and
bound her wrists with rope. She tensed as I slid her panties down, but stepped
out of them when instructed to do so. Rachel was now naked except for her
stockings, heels, collar, and gag. I returned her to her former position and
resumed my seat, watching.
Rachel stood as before. After a bit, she looked up and saw me gazing
upon her body. She turned red and lowered her eyes again. This cycle repeated
several times. I became more aroused with each cycle.
I walked back over to Rachel. "Do you want to leave yet?" She shook
her head. "Shall I take you upstairs now?" She nodded. I scooped her up and
carried her up the stairs. Once there, I set her on her feet, removed her gag,
and kissed her.
"You can talk now," I told her.
"Thank you," was all she said.
I tied a blindfold over her eyes.
"Now what?"
"If I wanted you to know that, I wouldn't have blindfolded you."
I untied her wrists, then picked her up and laid her on the bed,
removing her shoes. I made her spread her arms and legs and tied her to the bed
with the ropes I had prepared for her. Then I began a slow exploration of her
body with a feather, finding all her ticklish spots and some that made her gasp
or moan for other reasons. When I finished with the feather, I began exploring
with tongue and ice cube. Rachel thrashed helplessly, sometimes begging me to
stop, other times begging me not to.
After finishing my second tour of her body, I touched her and she nearly
leapt off the bed. It was time. I mounted her. Rachel didn't make a lot of
noise, but she struggled and thrashed mightily. When finally she subsided, I
rolled off and untied her.
"Worth the wait?" I inquired.
"Yes," was all she said, still somewhat out of breath.
In the morning, I removed Rachel's stockings and led her into the
shower.
"Aren't you going to take this collar off?"
"No, you'll wear it the entire time you're here."
"But, it'll get wet."
"If it gets wet, it gets wet."
After our shower, I dried Rachel off and gave her another towel for her
hair, then went down to the living room to retrieve her underwear.
"So, what are we doing today?" she wanted to know.
"First, you're going to fix us breakfast, then we're going to your house
for some fresh clothes, then we're going out to lunch. After lunch, we'll
wander around a bit, then return here where you'll await my pleasure."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means you'll have to wait to find out."
"I think I'll risk it." By this time she had her panties and stockings
back on and started on her bra.
"Hold it," I told her, "don't put on anything else. I want you to
prepare and serve breakfast as you are."
"What about shoes?"
"You can wear shoes if you wish."
"But...alright."
I could tell Rachel wasn't thrilled with this idea, but she went along
with it anyway. This was what I wanted. There was no point to her obedience if
I only asked her to do things she liked.
I sat at the small table in the breakfast nook and Rachel served me
pancakes and eggs. She went back to the kitchen and returned with her own
plate, then turned to go and get a chair, since I was occupying the only one at
the table.
"Wait," I told her. I got up and pulled her to me, kissed her, then
turned her about and pulled her arms behind her and bound her wrists with a
length of rope.
"How am I supposed to eat?"
"I'm going to feed you. Now, kneel right here."
Rachel knelt next to me where I indicated and I fed her, bite by bite.
She was even less thrilled with this turn of events, but again did as I
required.
After breakfast, I sent her up to get dressed, then we headed for her
house. "Aren't you going to take this collar off before we go out?"
"No. I told you you would wear it all weekend. The only way it gets
removed early is if you tell me you want to leave."
"But what if someone sees me in it?"
"If it gets wet, it gets wet."
"Huh...oh."
I was a bit worried that she might decide to leave. The overall package
seemed agreeable and she liked that I had the day all planned, but there were
all these prickles that rendered the package thornier than she had anticipated.
Once again, she chose to go along.
When we got to her house, she changed into some fresh clothes, then I
helped her pick out some things for tonight and tomorrow. She was a bit
understocked on intimate apparel, but that was something that could be rectified
once we determined if this relationship was going anywhere. She packed the stuff
into a small overnight bag and we left. As we got in my car, I noticed a woman
sitting in a car across the street. I had the same reflexes as everyone else in
the neighborhood and usually paid attention to who was hanging around. Since it
was a woman, I didn't consider her a threat. She seemed attractive. If I
hadn't been with someone, I'd have given her a second glance. I think Rachel
was embarrassed about her collar and kept her eyes down, so she didn't notice.
We had lunch at a restaurant north of the river. I chose the location
because it was a neighborhood neither of us frequented. Although I'd chosen to
take Rachel out in public in her collar, I didn't want to encounter anyone
either of us knew.
Rachel wore her hair down, so the collar was only visible from the front
and she kept her head down so that hardly anyone noticed it. The waitress
noticed, however. She gaped openly and Rachel turned red in embarrassment. Her
name was Jacqui and it seemed to me that Jacqui came by to fill the water
glasses rather more often than necessary. Each time she did, she stared at
Rachel's collar again and Rachel turned red again. I paused to wonder why it
was that I found Rachel's embarrassment such a turn on. I had no answer, but
there was no doubt how it affected me. When it came time to leave, I was going
to have to be careful that I didn't embarrass myself when I stood up.
I left Jacqui an extra large tip in appreciation for the extra
entertainment she had provided. I also wanted Jacqui to remember me, although I
had a feeling she would remember me just fine without the additional reminder.
Such people occasionally came in handy.
As we walked back out to the car, I suggested we check out some of the
small art galleries that were popping up in the old industrial districts. This
would be something that was interesting to both of us and also a place where
Rachel's collar would attract minimal attention.
"I think we need to go back to your house."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I need to fix your little problem."
Is it that obvious?"
"Quite."
Once inside the house, I tied Rachel's hands behind her and carried her
upstairs. I got us undressed, tossed her on the bed and landed on top of her.
This was exactly the sort of quickie I had objected to last night, but
everything has it's place. It wasn't like there hadn't been some buildup to our
current condition. I noted that Rachel's embarrassment at the restaurant had
had the same effect on her that it had had on me. I found her reaction to it
even more curious than my own.
I untied Rachel and we drifted off to sleep.
I awoke and looked at the clock. It was going on six PM. We had slept
most of the afternoon. It was just as well. Rachel was in for a long night.
I showered and dressed, then woke Rachel and told her it was time to
dress for dinner. While she was getting ready, I called to check on the dinner.
I had made arrangements for it to be delivered about seven. The restaurant
assured me everything was on schedule.
I told Rachel that dinner was a surprise and that after she was dressed,
she was to remain in the bedroom until I came for her. I went downstairs and
threw a tablecloth on the dining room table, then set two places. I set out the
wine and the dishes we would need, then sat down to wait. I had been sitting
less than a minute when the doorbell rang. The delivery guy helped me get the
stuff on the table, then I tipped him and sent him on. It looked delicious.
I returned upstairs for Rachel.
Rachel was looking delicious in her own rite. She had had one rather
elegant gown in her wardrobe which I had insisted she bring along to wear for
dinner. She wore black evening shoes with ankle straps and her collar
substituted very nicely for a necklace. She had her hair up with a strand of
faux (I assumed) pearls woven in and matching pearl earrings. I had wanted her
to wear gloves, but she didn't own any. She wasn't to wear any other jewelry,
since I had some accessories of my own with which she would be adorned.
I pulled her to me and kissed her, then sat her down and locked black
leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles.
"What are those for?"
"You'll find them more comfortable than rope or handcuffs."
"Oh."
I took Rachel's hand and she stood. Pulling her arms behind her, I
locked her wrist cuffs together, then knelt and joined her ankle cuffs by a
little over a foot of chain. "One more thing," I told her and snapped the end
of a black leather leash onto her collar, then led her off to dinner.
I suppose it probably helps if you share my tastes, but the sight of
Rachel descending the grand staircase in her gown, collared and leashed, her
hands bound behind her, is one of the erotic images I will carry to my grave. I
wish I had had the forethought to have my camera ready, although I suppose
Rachel herself wouldn't be thrilled about having her picture taken in this
condition.
The candles lit the dining room softly as I removed Rachel's leash and
unlocked her wrists, locking them again in front. I seated her at the table and
served her supper and poured her wine.
Rachel was having shrimp while I was having prime rib. I watched her as
she ate with her wrists locked only a couple of inches apart. She picked up her
glass and held it in both hands as she sipped her wine, gazing at me over the
top of it with a look that seemed to combine both need and mild reproach. It
drove me wild.
We spoke very little over dinner. I think Rachel was contemplating both
her current condition and whatever was to come next. I was doing exactly the
same thing.
"Are we having dessert?" Rachel asked as we neared the end of the meal.
"Yes, we are. You're going to have dessert on your knees."
"Not again."
Rachel thought it was going to be a repeat of the way I'd fed her
breakfast, but that wasn't quite what I had in mind. For my part, I hadn't
planned to move things along quite this quickly, but I was in even worse shape
than I'd been at lunch and Rachel was going to have to do something about it.
I got up and helped Rachel out of her seat, then drew my chair toward
her. "Kneel," I told her and gently pressed down on her shoulders. I sat down
in front of her and unzipped my fly.
"Bob, I've never done this before."
"Then it's time you learned. We can't have you going out on the streets
as unskilled labor, especially if you intend charging a thousand dollars."
"Pimp."
I took Rachel's head in my hands and guided her mouth to my cock. Once
I was in her mouth, she went to work without hesitation and I wasn't sure I
believed her claim of innocence.
It reminded me of another dessert I had had in this house, although this
experience was very different from that other one. That one made me think of an
overly rich chocolate mousse, whereas Rachel was more of a peaches and cream
type.
I locked Rachel's hands behind her again and led her out into the main
hall. "Wait here," I told her, "and don't speak again until I say it's okay."
I went upstairs and pocketed a gag and a few other items I thought would come in
handy. When I returned, Rachel was standing as I had left her.
Just as I returned to Rachel, a loud beeping noise came from the back
hall.
"What's that?" Rachel wanted to know.
"It's the motion detector on the front porch."
"You mean somebody's out there?"
She was terrified that someone would see her bound and leashed. "It's
probably not anybody. The wind sometimes sets it off," I told her, but there
was no wind tonight. "I'll go check. You stay put."
Continued in Part II
Copyright 2002
By Harold
Haroldx@eudoramail.com
