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Chelsea 1.0 Obsession

I like to tinker.  Always have, ever since I was a kid. Anything from taking apart a DVD player and putting it back together to building models from scratch.  Later, I graduated to laptops. Soon after, I started designing things.  Started with elaborate mouse traps and then graduated to Rube Goldberg styled contraptions.  Wasn’t really a point to it other than the sheer enjoyment of figuring out how to take what was in my head, translate it to paper, and then bring it to life.

Why am I telling you this? Trust me, it’s important.  Or, perhaps I just like talking about myself.  Anyway…

Her name was Chelsea, though I didn’t know that at first.  It took me a while to realize she’d moved into the house next door.  Sometimes I simply don’t pay attention.  In my defense, I do software development and I’d been on a pretty nasty deadline at the time.  About the only time I’d been home was late at night when I’d pull into my garage, drag myself into the house, and collapse in bed.

First time I noticed her, she was at the mailbox.  She wasn’t exactly dressed to impress.  A Michigan U sweat shirt that looked like she’d borrowed it from her boyfriend.  Sweats. A knit cap pulled over her hair. Not a hint of make-up, and yet, something about her drew my eye for a second look after which I made a mental note to see more of her.  A fleeting thought of actually introducing myself wormed its way into my brain.  After all, we were neighbors.  I quickly dismissed it.  Wasn’t really my style.  I was more of an observer.  And that is how I began a new Hobby.  Stalking.

I started out slowly.  After all, I was new to this.  That said, I had already learned many of the skills I’d need.  Remember my obsession with knowing how things work and how to take them apart and put them back together? Picking locks were easy.  So were alarm systems.  Tapping into internet systems, rerouting emails, even setting up surveillance would be simple.  Not that I did any of that.  At least, not at first.  That would be crossing a line.  It didn’t mean I didn’t consider it.

I started out by logging her outdoor habits. What time she left for work. What time she came home. When she made her trips out the mailbox.  Since I shared a fence with her, I made a point of spending time in the backyard when she did so that I could watch her covertly through a knot hole that I’d helped along specifically for that purpose.  Within a few weeks I’d learned enough about Chelsea to whet my appetite for ramping up my observations.   

Number One: she was single. Unless she was carrying on a long distance relationship or her significant other was deployed, she was not romantically involved with anyone. Upon coming home from work she usually stayed in.  From what I could observe, anytime she spent away from the house, was either spent at the gym (24 hour fitness. Her gym bag was a dead giveaway), shopping, or getting take out which she usually brought home.

Number Two: She was pretty.  It was hard to tell at first, given her fondness for loose fitting casual wear.  Baggy sweats. Oversized sweatshirts. Knit caps pulled down over her hair. Even for work (I hadn’t yet figured out where she worked, or what she did, but it hadn’t yet become a priority) it was usually jeans and a tee supplemented by a hooded sweatshirt, sneakers, and dark sunglasses. Her one overtly feminine touch was her fingernail polish.  She enjoyed bright colors, changing them every few days or so.  She had the girl next door look. Messy blonde waves that fell past her shoulders.  Out back she usually shed the sweatshirt so I got a good look at her figure.  Slim, though feminine.  Perky breasts. Prominent nipples.  Perhaps that explained the baggy tops.  Age range somewhere around 25.  Eye color either blue or green.  I hadn’t yet started to take pictures. Definitely my type. Yes, I had a type, I discovered after a week or two.

Number Three: She liked to relax with a glass of wine and music after work or read from her kindle.  Once or twice I’d even caught her smoking marijuana.  Neither to excess. Not sure what her musical or reading tastes were. Yet. She took care of herself.  Although she favored take out, I rarely saw her eating junk and never fast food. Health conscious, obviously.  As stated above, she belonged to a gym.

Three weeks into my observations I began using her as an object for my masturbatory fantasies.  At first It was in the privacy of my bedroom, imagining her in the typical scenarios I got myself off on, sticking to the tamer stuff for the time being, but soon, I began touching myself as I spied on her through the knothole or catching sight of her as I drove past while pretending to be staring out the front windshield, my eyes shielded by dark lenses, eager to return home and finish the job as soon as was humanly possible.

The weather seemed to be conspiring with me, growing warmer as June approached, leading to a change of style at the end of the day; yoga pants and short sleeved plaid shirts, haphazardly buttoned. Sometimes I’d get a little cleavage. Sometimes I’d catch sight of her belly button. Others I’d get a glimpse or more of her bra while she naively relaxed in the “privacy” of her backyard. Occasionally she’d be wearing shorts, proving my theory that she had killer legs and painted her toenails to match her fingernails.  Once or twice, unable to tear myself away, I made myself come with my eye pressed up against the rough wood planks of our shared fence, but only while she had her earbuds in so that, even if I made any sound, she couldn’t possibly overhear me. 

At that point I realized that there was no turning back, only going forward, and I began to step things up.  I made a list, of course. I liked lists.  They kept me focused. 

Number One: Exploration. I wanted to get to know her better, and that would require getting a good look inside her house.  I already knew her schedule. I would take a day off and simply wait for her to leave. Breaking and entering would be easy even if I hadn’t discovered the location to her hide-a-key the previous week when she’d locked herself out and the place wasn’t armed with a home security system. It was a nice neighborhood, after all.  I just wanted to take a look around and get a feel for her.  See what music she liked, what movies she watched, what books she read.  Maybe take a look in her closet and some of her drawers.  I’d never once seen her wear a dress. I assumed she owned some. 

Number Two:  Borrow a few things that I might find use for. My own copy of her key.  Password for her computer if I can find her password book.  Taking a pair of her used panties sounded creepy.  Also, I didn’t want to alert her to the possibility of my presence.  That said, I was curious as to what she smelled like, so I left it open as a possibility. 

Number Three: Eventually I wanted to put up a camera or two.  I decided that it would be best if I took video of the inside of her place so I could decide what the best placement might be and how to disguise them best. Yes, I had become that obsessed and, while realizing it gave me pause, it wasn’t enough to stop the wheels in my head from turning. It was just a matter of time.

I decided to take Wednesday off. The likelihood of her calling in during the middle of the week or taking a half day was practically non-existent.  And so, I waited, not breaking from my usual pattern, although I did take it to another level while fantasizing about her, imagining me breaking in and catching her playing with herself in the shower, surprising her as I joined her, pushing her up against the wall, kneeling at her feet, my tongue shoved deep into her juicy pussy… I came hard, harder than I had in a very long time.  The next night, the scenario had me pushing her face first into the shower tiles and fingering her from behind before falling asleep, pleasantly exhausted.  The next morning, I called in sick, and simply waited for her to leave.  I’d decided to give her an hour before putting my plan into motion, just in case something happened and she returned unexpectantly.

For a brief moment I was tempted to dress all in black, just like in the movies, laughing at myself at the mental image that went with it.  Jeans and a tee would be fine for the job, if not as dramatic.  Hopping the fence was easy.  Collecting her spare key and letting myself in, even easier.  After that, I simply took my time, using the camera on my phone to ‘case’ the place, adding audio notes when appropriate, memorizing the layout so I could draw up floor plans later.  It wouldn’t be hard, seeing as the layout was similar to mine.  Obviously the houses had been built around the same time.  

I started with the living room. Thankfully, she had a habit of closing the blinds at the front of the house whenever she left, leaving zero chance that I would be spotted from the sidewalk or street.  The décor was decidedly feminine, although a bit sparse. I was reminded that she had moved in fairly recently.  All the essentials were there, however, as well as little touches and knick knacks that tended towards the warm and cozy. She’d turned the room I used as a work space into a guest bedroom with a day bed beneath the window.  A very large stuffed bear was propped up in one corner.  Washer and dryer in the laundry room.  No hamper, though. Probably in the walk-in closet.  That’s where I kept mine, at least.  Really, I was a little disappointed by how normal and boring it all was, although it strengthened her girl next door vibe.

On to the bedroom.  I’d saved the best for last.  After all, this was where I would mostly likely learn about who Chelsea was.  Bedrooms were always intimate places where people let their guards down.  I wasn’t sure what I might discover or even what I wanted to discover, just that I was going to be get a glimpse of things she would never share with a stranger.

Like the rest of the house, it had a feminine feel. Flowered quilt covering a queen sized bed framed by brass rails at both ends.  A quartet of plump pillows and another stuffed bear, although a more traditionally sized one.  A reading bench beneath the corner windows.  The furniture was dark stained oak veneer. A dresser covered with trinkets and tchotchkes, a round make-up mirror, and a few photos – landscapes and buildings, probably taken on a trip.   A pair of night stands with just what you’d expect to find on them.  Tissue box. Jewelry box.  Reading light.  Some more photos. Some books.  Finally, at an answer to her tastes in literature. The master bathroom door was ajar and the curtains were pulled so that the room was bathed with light. The door to her closet was not.  A full length mirror was affixed to the wall between them.  I perused the book covers.  They looked like trashy romances.  No, not trashy.  Smutty.  Thinking of the spate of 50 Shades styled books now flooding the market, I could only roll my eyes.

I needed to go deeper. The nightstands each had a pair of drawers.  A sense of anticipation played through my thoughts and I felt a slight jump in my pulse as I slid the top right drawer open, giddy as a kid on Christmas morning.  I felt a smile stretching the corners of my mouth.  I’d hit gold on the first try.  A Journal, nestled amongst an assortment of sex toys.  A perfect accompaniment to the smutty paperbacks.  Tempted as I was to mine her secrets, I didn’t touch a thing, content to simply observe for now.  I didn’t want to alert her, after all.  The Journal was black and fashioned of leather.  Simple and unadorned.  It had a clasp on it with a keyhole. I had to assume she kept it locked.  For now, that wasn’t an issue.  I’d just have to make sure to bring the correct tools with me on my next foray.  The toys looked well cared for and expensive.  None of the cheap plastic vibes given as joke gifts. I took a picture to keep as a memento and made a mental list.  One latex dildo, black.  One latex dildo with suction cup base, flesh.  One rabbit style vibrator, blue.  One remote egg, red, with remote.  One medium sized butt plug, black. One large sized butt plug, Black.  One glass dildo, smooth.  One glass dildo, curved, with bumps (it resembled a tentacle).  Without thinking I slipped my hand into the front of my jeans and began stroking slowly, running my tongue between my lips, wetting them. I felt suddenly warm and considered, very briefly, stripping down to nothing. Gathering my will, I talked myself out of it and carefully closed the drawer and moved on.

Underwear.  A collection of panties and bras. Folded, but not neatly.  A mixture of functional and cute.  Nothing overtly sexy.  Colorful, though.  Blue, red, green, lavender, pink, black.  Cotton, it looked like.  Again, I kept my hands to myself, once more, taking a picture to enjoy later before closing it and moving on.  Nightstand number two.  Top drawer.  A pair of book sized metal boxes.  Like her journal, they appeared to be locked.  Alongside them were about a dozen DVD cases with plain white covers.  Some had dates carefully written on the spines. Others, what looked like abbreviated titles that gave me the impression it was her porn stash. The dates, however, intrigued me.  Again, I snapped a picture.  Below that, socks.  Again, cute and colorful, some with designs.  Cat faces.  Hearts.  Ribbons.  That kind of thing. A few white cotton. Couple of sport bras.

I moved on to the dresser and its trio of drawer.  Top drawer was a mixture of nail polishes, makeup, and jewelry.  What caught my eye were a stack of envelopes with her name on them, nothing more. Chelsea. I said it out loud, enjoying the way it rolled off my tongue. It fit. Chelsea with the perky nipples that poked through her tops and the smutty novels, not to mention the impressive toy collection.  My heart beating against my ribs, I traced her name with the tip of my finger, tempted to read what was inside.  It looked like it might be a love letter.  Again, I resisted temptation.  This was simply an exploratory expedition. Slow and steady wins the day.  Swallowing, I slid the drawer closed and moved on to the next one down.

More underwear. Actually, lingerie.  Obviously not daily wear.  The sexy stuff. Silk. Lace and ribbons. Some even looked like they might be crotchless. Two sets of latex.  Stockings and garters. Bustiers.  The kind of things you wear out, intending them to be seen which was puzzling, since I was 99% certain she hadn’t been on a date since she’d moved in.  Perhaps she was simply going through a slump.  More pictures and then one more drawer of yet unrevealed mystery. 

I felt my jaw drop a little. Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea. What a bad girl you are, I thought with a smirk. This one was full of bondage gear.  Leather restraints for the wrists and ankles.  Handcuffs.  A variety of nipple clamps and metal clothes pins laying carelessly in a lidless box.  Short lengths of chain and rope. A leather blindfold. A ball gag.  Another box of padlocks with a ring of keys.  Eventually, I’d want copies, but not today.  I allowed myself a moment to close my eyes and imagine her spread naked on her bed, cuffed and chained to the rails, helpless as I stood over her and simply watched.  Once again, I found my hand drifting between my legs purposefully. This time I indulged my primal instincts, slipping it into the waist band of my panties, unsurprised at how wet I was and how swollen my labia had become.  Slowly, I pushed a single digit into my eager pussy and then out again, carefully removing it from my damp underwear so that it was still coated with my juices, sucking it clean, tasting myself, imagining it was Chelsea I was tasting.  For a brief moment I thought of leaving her a clue.  Perhaps the tangy scent of my cunt on one of her toys or a pair or her panties. It was a terrible idea, obviously, but one I contemplated for a full minute as I sucked my finger clean before closing the drawer wistfully, brightening up as I remembered I’d yet to explore her closet.          

It was locked, which struck me as strange.  It might have been frustrating had it not been so intriguing.  I couldn’t imagine what secrets lay upon the other side of the door that merited a locked barrier.  Actually, I could, now that I’d been through her drawers.  I took a few moments going through her bathroom distractedly, finding little to interest me. Certainly nothing unexpected.  After that, it was time to go.  I decided to save the mystery of the locked closet for the following Wednesday. That was when I planned to plant surveillance.  I already had the location worked out in my head.  In the meantime, I would simply resume watching from a distance.

That evening, she came out on the back porch as always.  She was wearing loose cotton shorts and a loose tee advertising her gym of choice, accessorized by a glass of white wine and her kindle. Obviously she didn’t suspect that earlier that day a stranger had been through her house uninvited. Just the thought gave me a thrill. Thankfully she had chosen to listen to music, her earbuds making her oblivious to my heavy breaths as I unzipped my jeans and started stroking myself, imaging watching her as she undressed for bed.  Watching her intently as she pushed her shorts from her hips, revealing crotchless black lace panties.  Pulling her tee over her head, her nipples denting her matching bra.  Staring at her as she propped herself up on her pillows, picking up one of her smutty novels, legs spread slightly, free hand gripping her black latex cock. Pushing it into her dripping wet cunt as she read, lips moving sensuously, mouthing each word silently as she fucked herself, over and over, until the book dropped to the covers and she let out a primal cry…  

I came hard, covering my mouth with my free hand to stifle an orgasmic groan.  Afterwards, I snuck back inside and sketched the layout of Chelsea’s home, including the placement of all her furniture, doors, and windows.  Everything.  Waiting would be hard, but the payoff would be worth it

Chelsea.  Such a pretty name for a pretty girl.  Although I considered myself straight, I had always been drawn to pretty girls. Perhaps it was time to question my proclivities once more. I made a note to examine my sexuality and my willingness to defer from my previously considered preference of cock.  As it did every so often, the thought that I might be a little odd crept into my thoughts.  And, as always, it made me chuckle. I was obsessively stalking a woman and fantasizing about her.  I was obviously more than a little odd.  Twisted, even.  And, as always, I didn’t let it bother me.  It was simply another observation. 

I meant to spend the rest of the week following my new routine. Observing Chelsea while planning my next expedition.  The camera I purchased was about the size of a nickel and provided audio as well.  I considered putting up several, but decided to go simple for now.  One would do, carefully concealed on her ceiling light so I’d have a bird’s eye view of her bed.  It would feed into my computer and I could set the motion detector on the so it only recorded when she was on, or in, her bed. I would bring it, and my lock picks when I visited next so I could get a look at whatever secrets her closet held. Also, I’d borrow the keys to her padlocks and take them to a locksmith to make copies before returning them. 

I barely lasted until Friday night, an insatiable hunger growing within me until I thought I’d explode. Thursday night I had woken up abruptly, my hand already between my legs, my pussy overflowing, soaking not only my panties, but the bedsheet, my clit swollen almost painfully. There was no foreplay or subtly. I began to rub myself furiously, making myself come immediately with an intensity that almost scared me.  Five minutes later I was at it again. And then, again, until, finally too sore and exhausted to continue I simply lay there, breathing hard, trying hard to remember my dream.  It had centered around Chelsea.  She’d been on her knees, naked and bound, her face buried in my pussy.  I’d had her hair in a tight grip, forcing her to eat me out as she struggled, unable to breath until I released her and began stroking her hair, petting her, as she gazed longingly up, her face shining with my cum, pleading silently for me to make her come too.  That’s when I’d woken up.  The image stayed with me all day, returning when I’d indulged myself in a nap on the sofa after work. Once again, she invaded my dreams uninvited. She was standing, her back to the wall, hands raised overhead and cuffed to a hook above her head. Her tits were heaving, her nipples swollen and stiff, glistening with my saliva, metal clothespins attached to them.  There was one on her clit as well. Her face was twisted with a mixture of pain and ecstasy.  With a throaty moan, I rolled over and began rolling my hips against the cushion, grinding and humping until I got myself off again.  I needed to find a way to get my mind off of her. I couldn’t keep this up all weekend. What I needed was to get fucked by a nice hard cock.

It had never hard for me to find someone. I’d been gifted with good looks. Dark, where Chelseas was light.  And I didn’t have an aversion to dressing slutty when the occasion demanded. All I really needed was a horny guy without morals.  There were several bars notorious for being hook up places. I picked one that was far enough away that I was unlikely to run into someone I knew.  Choosing an outfit was easy.  I was going for full on ‘nasty girl’ with a criminally short skirt and a revealing top.  By the time I slid into the back seat of the cab my panties were already damp with anticipation.

It wasn’t a challenge. In fact, I could have been choosey if  I’d wanted. Instead I settled for the first guy to show interest. Not one for meaningless conversation I simply seduced him with a whispered invitation to fuck my brains out in the restroom.  I wasn’t looking to be romanced.  I didn’t need foreplay.  I was already a dripping mess.  As soon as he shut the latch on the stall I was bent over and using the porcelain tank for balance, legs spread, presenting my ass to him.  Moments later he’d pulled my panties aside and was drilling me like an animal. Any other time I might have been pissed, being treated like this, but right then and there, I needed to be treated nasty.  He’d shoved my skirt up around my waist, his hand gripping my hips roughly, fingers digging into my flesh as he pumped and thrust, the sound of his grunts echoing in the confined space. Closing my eyes, I pretended that it was Chelsea behind me, ramming her black latex cock deep into my displayed cunt, over and over, calling me every dirty name I could conjure. It was almost enough to make me come.  Almost.  If he’d lasted longer, I might have. As it was, he must have been going at my slick hole for less than five minutes before I felt him stiffen and push even deeper inside of me.  A moment later I could feel his cock pulsing as he moaned and swore, coming inside of me with a passion that I found myself envious of.

Afterwards… he wanted to make small talk.  Get my number.  Set up another hook up.  Secretly Brewing.  His cum dribbling down the insides of my thighs as I leaned against the graffiti covered wall pretending to be cordial, telling him what a good fuck he was, how I wanted to do it again, promising to give him a call – all lies.  I wanted, more than anything, to go back home and get myself off thinking of her, of Chelsea. 

The next night, I picked a different place, this time choosing a body hugging scarlet dress that was fairly scandalous. By the time my cab arrived, I was already tipsy, enough that I offered the driver a blowjob as a tip.  By the time I got into the bar, my lipstick was smeared and I had the taste of semen in my mouth.  Not wanting a repeat of last night, I managed to get myself invited to some guy’s house – I think his name was David? – but only after he’d promised me he’d call some friends to meet us.

I want it rough, I told him.  Force me.  Use me.  Do whatever you want.  This time, I didn’t want to imagine Chelsea fucking me.  This time I wanted to be her.

I got my wish. When they were done with me my panties had been ripped to shreds, the dress was stained with cum and torn, and I was sore all over.  There was cum leaking out of my cunt and my ass when I left.  They’d come all over my tits, too.  And my face.  I didn’t even bother to clean myself up.  My heart was pounding when the cab driver looked me over before opening the door for me.  This time, there was no blow job.  This time I simply played with my cream filled pussy while he watched me in his rearview. The only thing lacking was that, once again, I had been unable to tip over the edge.  Time and time again I had come close to climaxing, but something held me back.  That wasn’t true when I got home, though.  I was fine in the comfort of my own room, my thoughts turning to the object of my desire and obsession. When I finally came, still covered and filled with semen, staining my sheets with it, I cried out her name.  Chelsea.

Somehow, I managed to hold on after that, the promise of more exploration making it hard to concentrate at work.  By Tuesday evening I’d begun counting off the hours.

Wednesday.  Finally.  I’d already arranged a day off. All I had to do was wait for her to leave before letting myself in once more.  I took my time again.  While the bedroom was my ultimate destination, I wanted to develop a sense of intimacy with her, even if it was one-sided. With that in mind, I’d chosen sweat pants and a sweat shirt, much like she often wore, beneath which I’d donned something far more racy – matching red lace panties and bra. As soon as I closed the back door behind me I pulled my sweats off, placing the small pack with my tools in in the hall doorway.  The rest of my visit would be spent dressed only in my intimates. It felt wonderful to let my hair down metaphorically.  A little dreamy, perhaps.  Delicious. I could already feel a familiar moistening in my pussy accompanied by an inferno blossoming within my core.  

This time, I went through her mail, conveniently set out on her dining room table. There wasn’t much, but I did learn something new.  Her last name. Reed.  Chelsea Reed. Next came the fridge.  On a whim, I poured myself a glass of wine from the bottle within, using a glass in the dish drainer. I figured she wouldn’t notice and I would clean the glass before I left.  It wasn’t enough to make me tipsy – just enough to relax a little.  Looking around, I didn’t notice anything different from my last visit so I settled on the couch to enjoy my little indulgence and turned on the television.  HBO.  One of the superhero movies was on.  Captain America. She had a DVD player hooked up. Be easy to pop one of the DVDs in her nightstand in.  Very easy.  Perhaps another time.  I looked through the DVDs she had out.  Fairly pedestrian tastes.  No art movies.  No porn.  Nothing worth more than a glance.  Finishing my wine, I washed the glass and replaced it.  She’d never know the difference.  On to the bedroom, soon as I gathered my pack.  There were locks to be picked, a journal to be read, and a camera to set up. I decided to do that first, seeing as it might prove tricky as it would require using her bed as a step stool.

Afterwards. I carefully straightened up the covers, unable to resist the urge to sniff her pillows. The faint scent of flowers lingered.  Her shampoo.  I fought the desire to bury my nose and inhale her scent, wondering if the wine was effecting me more than I’d thought.  This wasn’t me. I wasn’t attracted to women. Not other women, at least. Chelsea, however, intrigued me beyond reason.  I had no explanation for it. It defied logic, but to deny it would be dishonest.  Right there and then, all I could think of was straddling the pillow where she lay her head and humping it, leaving my own pungent scent for her to discover when she crawled into bed.  I fought for control, regaining it before I could do something foolish, and refocusing my thoughts by reviewing my list.

Number one.  Set up Camera. Number Two.  Explore Closet.  Number Three.  Read Journal.  No deviations.  No additions. I’d already been sidetracked by the wine. I wouldn’t let it happen again.  The lock was easy. It was only designed to keep out a casual intruder. To a determined one, such as I, it was barely a deterrent.  Door opened, I flipped on the light, chuckling a little at the array of large sweat shirts, non-descript cotton tees, short sleeved blouses, and sweat pants. Her shorts were folded and stacked on a hanging closet organizer. Several coats for cooler weather acted as a barrier between those and a selection of dresses that were a complete opposite.  I pulled them out, one by one, imagining her wearing them. Easy to see her out clubbing in many of them, or our on a hot date, intending to get laid.  The least modest of them would have made a more conservative woman blush.  On impulse, I pulled one out, a royal blue chiffon number.  It would be semi-transparent when worn.  Pulling it off the hanger, I returned to her bedroom and held it up to me I front of the mirror. It had occurred to me that we were close in size, close enough that I could probably get away with wearing her clothing.  I filed that away as I replaced the dress and continued on. Another hanging rack filled with scandalously short skirts.  A selection of flirty tops. And then, a real eye opener – a trio of dresses that would have looked at home in a porno shoot. Two Leather pieces and one Latex.  Her shoes were similarly divided. The sneakers, flip flops, and sandals I have grown accustomed to seeing her wear separated from a medley of stiletto pumps and boots.  There was also a trunk tucked away under her dresses. Locked of course. I debated opening it. After all, it wasn’t on my initial list, and I’d already been sidetracked once.  Twice wouldn’t do at all. Before I could change my mind, I refocused my attention to her Hamper.

Her hamper.  I lingered over that, simply eyeing the contents, focusing on a pair of lavender lace panties laying carelessly on top of one of her tees. The Grail.  I couldn’t resist. Carefully I lifted them from their resting place and fondled them.  They felt so good against my fingertips.  Lifting them to my nose, I was rewarded with my first scent of her pussy. It was faint, but unmistakable.  Closing my eyes, I simply lost myself, breathing her in, my own pussy growing warmer and wetter.  The thought of putting them on, our fragrances mingling, was overpowering, but I resisted again reminding myself to savor each moment.  Shaking myself, as if to brush off the cobwebs of a dream, I put them back exactly as I had found them. 

Then, I simply exited her walk-in, locking it behind me, and knelt before her nightstand. The image of a supplicant kneeling before an alter flashed quickly through my thoughts momentarily. I brushed it aside and retrieved her journal, stroking the leather with reverence, my fingers actually shaking at the prospect of digging, uninvited, into the forbidden territory of her most private thoughts. I was vaguely aware of how my knees spread, of their own accord, my legs opening obscenely, displaying the dampened gusset of my panties.  I took a moment to pry it to one side, exposing my pussy, unable to resist the temptation to brush my finger along my outer lips before delictely picking the lock.

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