Monday, November 24, 2008

Naked Lesbian Stalker


ou open the window and throw your leg over and enter the mansion. You are a female and you’re completely naked. You just broke up with your girlfriend (Sheila) of over seven years not more than an hour ago and you are feeling angry, hurt, and out-of-control. The house you have entered is a major celebrity’s home, a woman you’ve worshiped for many years. You found the address of her mansion on the internet and were surprised to discover she had a house in your own home state.

Naked Lesbian Stalker

You walk into the living room, your bare breasts jiggling a little, and you feel a little cold from the abrupt temperature change, but you ignore it and stare up to the large golden chandelier above you. You shiver and cover your arms and see the thermostat nearby, you go over and adjust it down a few degrees. A black leather couch is in the corner, you lie down and try to relax and not think about the painful breakup that occurred not long ago, the screaming, the harsh accusations, the uncontrollable crying, it’s all still echoing in your mind. But at least the tequila is beginning to wear off. After Sheila told you to get out of her house, you ran to the liquor store three blocks away, bought a large bottle and guzzled a quarter of it down before the bottle slipped from your hands and busted on the sidewalk. Then you ran through the streets taking your clothes off and throwing them at the passing cars.

You weigh 125 pounds and stand five feet, seven inches tall. You’re in top physical condition from practicing gymnastics your entire life—you were almost good enough to make the U.S. Olympic team. While running nude down Main Street only minutes earlier, the cars honked and the men yelled, commenting on your perfectly shaped buttocks, muscular legs, and full, firm breasts. Miraculously no one called the police on you. But that’s all over now.

“I can’t believe I’m really here,” you say aloud while lying back on the couch, eyes open, looking around at the vases and furniture and knickknacks in the mansion. “I can’t believe this is really her home. I have all her albums. She is amazing. What a beautiful soul. I’ve wanted to meet her ever since I was 12 years old.” Your legs are still chilly even though the central air has kicked off, a cold chill travels up your spine and you shiver. “Brrr,” you say. Despite being a naked lesbian stalker lying on a rich and powerful person’s couch illegally, for some reason you feel safe and secure and reasonably confident that you won’t be spending the rest of your life in prison.

“What am I doing on this couch?” you say, “I should check out the rest of the house while I’m here, especially her bedroom.” You rise from the couch and see a wide staircase to your left and run up the stairs, your muscular legs easily transporting you to the second floor of the mansion.

So many rooms, the hall so long. But you notice the third room on the left seems like it could be her main bedroom. You look at the beautiful furniture and the paintings on the green walls and run your hand across the nice bed spread and lie down on the large bed and smell the pillows. Wonderful. There is an abstract painting to your right. Silver and orange bursts of color with blue lines and triangulations. “Interesting,” you say.

It’s warmer upstairs and your beautiful nude body is more comfortable now, you feel so relaxed you’re smiling a little and wish you could sleep for an hour or two but you realize you must stay alert in case you have to hide when someone comes home, which could be at any second. The large walk-in closet is to your right and you go over and open the double doors and step inside and find the light switch. A dazzling array of clothes are illuminated. You recognize the work of many top fashion designers: Prada, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel, etc. Again this is comforting to you. You choose a black evening gown and put it on and look in the closet mirror while revolving around. “If she could only see me now,” you say spinning around. “I know she would want me.”

But you decide it feels better to be nude and you take the gown off and re-hang it and then walk backward slowly until you feel the wall of the closet and let yourself slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. You look down at your hands, you examine your wrists and forearms, you don’t feel the tequila anymore, you grow pensive, you still can’t believe you’re actually in her house.

A loud buzzer goes off.

It startles you.

A few more electronic beeps sound.

Naked Lesbian Stalker

The security system has been altered. Someone is in the mansion with you. Why didn’t the alarm go off when you entered the window earlier? Perhaps a silent alarm was triggered. But wouldn’t you have noticed something? You reach up and turn off the closet light. You feel a small amount of panic initially, but it quickly passes. It seems like you were expecting to get caught, that you actually wanted to be found in her mansion, so that maybe the celebrity you worship would see your face in the newspaper, or on the television news, so then she would know you’re alive, that you actually exist in the world at present, and that you love her, and perhaps she would want to speak to you, even for a couple of minutes. That would be the best thing in the world.

You realize she could be in the mansion at this very moment. What should I do now? You say to yourself. Maybe there’s still time to flee.

You hear footsteps below.

They get louder and louder.

Whoever it is, they are going upstairs.

You stay seated on the floor.

What will they do when they find me nude? you think. I hope it’s her, I hope it’s her in the house now.

You lean over and lay down against the wall. You don’t want to run anymore. You hear the footsteps getting closer as you try to lay perfectly still. It’s more than one person. A few loud voices, all of them male voices.

If only she could see how I look, you think, lying on the floor of the closet. It’s so dark now, they are just outside. Should I try to run? There still may be time. No, I can’t run anymore, I’ve had enough, I’m too tired, I’m sick of suffering. I only want to be loved by somebody.

The voices are so loud now, many people are searching the bedroom, you know the closet will be searched next.

Finally, the door opens …

Several men in black uniforms rush inside …

And you start screaming …

Jason Earls is the author of the books Cocoon of Terror (Afterbirth Books), Red Zen, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy, and If(Sid_Vicious == TRUE && Alan_Turing == TRUE) {ERROR_Cyberpunk();}.

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