I estimate, of medium height and almost heavy set. Hazel eyes look at me from under a mane of black hair. She is busty and the plum colored blouse she wears displays that fact. Her nipples are poking visibly at the material of her garment. A short, night hued skirt is wrapped around her wide hips. Dark stockings with a green vine pattern running up the inseam encase her shapely legs. Her shoes match the hosiery in shade and have five inch stiletto heels. The third finger of her left hand shows depressions where rings have been.
There’s a dichotomy to her. The woman strikes me as being dressed for an assignation, but there is an air of discomfort surrounding her. Somehow she reminds me of Helen. She seems torn by an internal struggle.
I reply with a heavy German accent, “ Ja , can I help you?” It’s habit when speaking to a stranger. I often misdirect. It’s safer that way.
The woman takes a deep breath and then asks, “Do you know where 75 Elm Street is?”
A piece snaps into place. That is where Ms. Richardson currently resides. A woman visiting her is not likely to be going for tea. It seems Mandy has quite a string of lovers.
“ Ja ,” I tell her then. “It is the next street up. I am going that way. You will accompany me.” My tone is almost commanding. The woman falls into step beside me without hesitation. This give me yet more insight to Mandy’s victims.
“I am Heinz Guderian,” I tell my companion, “I teach physics here. And you?”
“Cyn…Cynthia Moran. I’m visiting a, a friend,” she answers back. I can catch what is becoming a common scent coming from her. Cynthia is getting aroused.
We come to Elm Street and I check the number on the street sign. “Four houses that way, on this side.” I point in the direction she needs to go.
“Thank you, Mr. Guderian,” she tells me and heads where I’ve directed.
“ Bittë, Fraü Moran,” I echo to her. She doesn’t pick up on the fact that I know part of her secret.
I cross the road, continuing past Elm Street, then double back. Keeping to the opposite side of the avenue I stay about ten meters behind Mrs. Moran and follow her, using the trees that line this urban boulevard for cover. She soon heads up the walk to the rather large house Ms. Richardson and her chief bed warmer reside in. I stay in the lee of a trunk to watch.
Mandy answers the door. “Hey, teach,” I hear from her, “right on time. And you walked here, just as you were told. I bet my neighbors liked the show.”
Another morsel of knowledge floats to the surface. Mrs. Moran had been Mandy’s English teacher in her final year of high school. It would appear my opponent has been at this game for some time.
Cynthia enters the house and the front door closes behind her. I slip from my cover, cross 75 Elm Street’s lawn and place myself against the wall of the house, away from the streetlights. With a small power expenditure I wrap a veil of shadows around myself.
I can hear people moving inside, going up the stairs. As I slip from window to window of the ground floor, I check rooms, just glancing over each sill. All are dark and empty. The furniture in each is very good, both tasteful and comfortable. The university treats its guests well.
There is a back deck, with a sliding glass door leading into the kitchen. Just as I peek in the light comes on. I duck back, then ease my head so one eye can peer into the room. Not much illumination falls on me so my cloak should hold.
A trio of women enters the room, Mandy first, trailed by Cynthia and then Christy. Mandy is dressed in her usual T-shirt and jeans. The shirt is loose and covers her crotch. It almost hides that there is something in Ms. Richardson’s pants, something that makes a shape similar to a large erection. Christy is wearing only a short, clingy and transparent blue robe. As all her clothes are it’s very feminine and display her attributes to good effect. If I were still a man my reaction would be
There’s a dichotomy to her. The woman strikes me as being dressed for an assignation, but there is an air of discomfort surrounding her. Somehow she reminds me of Helen. She seems torn by an internal struggle.
I reply with a heavy German accent, “ Ja , can I help you?” It’s habit when speaking to a stranger. I often misdirect. It’s safer that way.
The woman takes a deep breath and then asks, “Do you know where 75 Elm Street is?”
A piece snaps into place. That is where Ms. Richardson currently resides. A woman visiting her is not likely to be going for tea. It seems Mandy has quite a string of lovers.
“ Ja ,” I tell her then. “It is the next street up. I am going that way. You will accompany me.” My tone is almost commanding. The woman falls into step beside me without hesitation. This give me yet more insight to Mandy’s victims.
“I am Heinz Guderian,” I tell my companion, “I teach physics here. And you?”
“Cyn…Cynthia Moran. I’m visiting a, a friend,” she answers back. I can catch what is becoming a common scent coming from her. Cynthia is getting aroused.
We come to Elm Street and I check the number on the street sign. “Four houses that way, on this side.” I point in the direction she needs to go.
“Thank you, Mr. Guderian,” she tells me and heads where I’ve directed.
“ Bittë, Fraü Moran,” I echo to her. She doesn’t pick up on the fact that I know part of her secret.
I cross the road, continuing past Elm Street, then double back. Keeping to the opposite side of the avenue I stay about ten meters behind Mrs. Moran and follow her, using the trees that line this urban boulevard for cover. She soon heads up the walk to the rather large house Ms. Richardson and her chief bed warmer reside in. I stay in the lee of a trunk to watch.
Mandy answers the door. “Hey, teach,” I hear from her, “right on time. And you walked here, just as you were told. I bet my neighbors liked the show.”
Another morsel of knowledge floats to the surface. Mrs. Moran had been Mandy’s English teacher in her final year of high school. It would appear my opponent has been at this game for some time.
Cynthia enters the house and the front door closes behind her. I slip from my cover, cross 75 Elm Street’s lawn and place myself against the wall of the house, away from the streetlights. With a small power expenditure I wrap a veil of shadows around myself.
I can hear people moving inside, going up the stairs. As I slip from window to window of the ground floor, I check rooms, just glancing over each sill. All are dark and empty. The furniture in each is very good, both tasteful and comfortable. The university treats its guests well.
There is a back deck, with a sliding glass door leading into the kitchen. Just as I peek in the light comes on. I duck back, then ease my head so one eye can peer into the room. Not much illumination falls on me so my cloak should hold.
A trio of women enters the room, Mandy first, trailed by Cynthia and then Christy. Mandy is dressed in her usual T-shirt and jeans. The shirt is loose and covers her crotch. It almost hides that there is something in Ms. Richardson’s pants, something that makes a shape similar to a large erection. Christy is wearing only a short, clingy and transparent blue robe. As all her clothes are it’s very feminine and display her attributes to good effect. If I were still a man my reaction would be
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