be my body he’s outlining, like that, so reverently, so slowly and softly. No one would want to touch me like that, and even if they did … that isn’t my shape. That subtle curve at my hip, the fullness of my breasts … how can he even tell that I look like that beneath this shapeless gown?
And then I realise I’m practically clutching the thing to me, following the path he’s making with that twisting, curving hand, and I know for sure. He’s touching me, across a million miles of space and through two panes of glass. He’s uncovering my body, those fingers finding their way over my jaw and my throat, clutching briefly in a way that thrills me, before sliding on down to other places I can’t bear to touch.
Only I can, when he’s touching them for me. He rubs his knuckles over my swollen mound and I find myself doing the same. I even turn my hand to get the exact same effect, pressing in when he does, forcing those knots of bone deep into my slick slit.
Everything parts easily for me, even through material. And my clit is so stiff and swollen that I barely have to push against myself to get some pressure on it. Just a little movement, a little rub back and forth, and I’m masturbating for a stranger.
A stranger who then makes a very specific sort of gesture, which I can’t easily ignore or dismiss. Lift your nightgown, that gesture says. No more than a wave of his other hand, really, but enough to make me try. Quickly I do it, quickly, like some furtive flasher in a supermarket, aware of how easily I could be caught.
Someone could just slide open their curtain in the middle of the night, for example. Or maybe the girl from 9G will walk by, just as I had imagined. Just in time to see me expose my slippery pussy to this stranger’s hungry gaze.
And it will look slippery, I know. I can feel the wetness on my perfectly waxed and oh-so-sensitive skin, and if I dared to glance down I know I’d see it glistening there. In fact, I don’t even need to see it glistening there. It’s obvious that I look as lewd and aroused as a woman could possibly be, because, after a moment of watching me, his hand goes to that place between his legs.
I can tell it does, even through all of this frustrating darkness. I can make out the motion of his thick bicep, as he works himself to the sight of me. And after a second of that desperate motion, he brings the fingers of his free hand to his lips and licks, then reaches forwards to stroke over my messy slit, through the glass.
He wants me to get off at the same time he does, I’m certain. He’s going to jerk and come inside that clingy material, and when he does he wants me to do it, too. He wants me to slide two fingers through my swollen folds, find my clit, and stroke myself in time to the slow, easy rub he’s giving himself.
And when he puts it like that, I find him impossible to resist. My face is flaming and my body is strung as taut as a wire, but I work my way through all of my mortifying slickness, until I’ve found that agonising point. That stiff little bud, so ready to be touched.
And then I just rub over it with the pad of my fingertip, just once, but once is enough. I can’t even hold off long enough to see if I was right and that he’s ready to come too. I just stumble over the edge into a thick, uncontrollable orgasm, more slipperiness spilling over my hand as I do, body spasming and twisting beneath the pressure of it.
I’ve never longed to know his name as hard as I do now, while calling out words that are not him. I moan uuuh and God and yes, but none of them fits my sultry stranger, my Serial Killer. They just have to make do as the most intense orgasm of my life barrels through my body, the sight of him stroking himself driving it on.
By the time he arches in his chair and shows me what he’s been doing – hand sliding back and forth over his slick and very bare prick – I’m sure this thing has gone on forever. I’m still coming when he finally spurts, thick and copious and all over that neat little table of his.
Though that’s not the best thing about it. No, the best thing about it comes after he’s almost done. He sags back in his chair, and a split second before he does I see the side of his face – caught in pleasure and desire, as beautiful as it had seemed in the hallway.
And then I see his tongue, curling up to catch his upper lip – so greedily, I think, so different to the restrained person he usually appears to be – and that’s all I need. That’s what I take away from this lewd act, to store away for leaner, crueller times. Tomorrow I’ll believe it was all just imagined desire and lust and loveliness.
And then I’ll remember that tongue just kissing his upper lip, and make it real again.
I’m aware that this is a ridiculous thing to do – like a stalker, rooting through things that belong to a person they’re having a fake relationship with. But, after last night, I can’t help it. I think of the name I couldn’t call out and then I just wait, and watch which mailbox he goes to.
I do it surreptitiously, out of the corner of one eye.
And then once he’s made his way past me – me with my back to him, him staring straight ahead, the air between us bristling like that moment just before lightning strikes – I go to the place he was. I run my fingers over the Sellotaped name on the front of that dingy grey metal.
Ivan. Ivan Orlinsky, it says, which of course only makes things worse. Now I’m thinking of far-off places in the past, where men with beards stride around through the snow and everyone has mysterious accents. He’s the Russian of my imagination, the Polish of my dreams, or maybe some other nationality that I can’t even think of.
Ivan Orlinsky, I think, from the land of TirAsleen. And then I have to stop, because the end of that tale is: who came across oceans of time to be with a tired, pathetic checkout girl called Abbie Gough.
It doesn’t quite go, does it? Abbie and Ivan. Abbie is the girl you shove into the road on your way to a business meeting. She’s not the mysterious sex partner of a dense-eyed man called Ivan.
And yet that’s the name on the parcel he’s left in my mailbox, in that same neat cursive script he used for the window. Abbie, it says, just above the impeccable seam he’s made with the expensive wrapping – a perfectly straight and perpendicular join, held down by tape so crisply cut it could have been done with a machine.
Hell, maybe it was. It’s called him. He’s made of metal cogs and synchronised gears, and, when he’s required to send an unexpected gift to a stunned girl, they perform the task with technical precision.
I can hardly bear to tear into the thing, it’s that perfect. The paper’s so thick, so glossy, it’s actually nicer than most of the gifts I’ve ever received. It would be a shame to ruin it with rabid fumbling by my mailbox, as Mrs Hindleman from apartment 7F looks on.
So I take the gift upstairs. I sit on my bed and place it in my lap, for further inspection, though no amount of analysis will reveal his error. He hasn’t made one. I have to somehow inch into this thing, with great and deliberate care.
Of course that only makes the anticipation greater. I can feel my eagerness clutching at my throat by the time I’ve tenderly undone the wrapping, and when I see the carved wooden box beneath my breath chokes off entirely.
He’s made this box, I think. He’s whittled it out of some dense, dark wood, for reasons I can’t fathom. I just know they’re there, these reasons, I know he’s done this. I can tell by the way the box feels and looks, and, most of all, by how hard it is to get into.
He’s made a puzzle box, seemingly equal on all sides, with no clear hinges or seams. It’s just one endless whorl and curve carved into wood, as beautiful as anything I’ve seen. As disturbing, too. It’s almost too intricate, I think, like a painting by that guy with the staircases – full of hidden thorns and secret upside-down passageways. If I touch the wrong thing,