She climbs from the cab and as it drives off, stands swaying with fatigue. She is a pretty girl with long full brown hair, an exception of stillness in the crazy yellow of the street lights, in the shifting shadows and glares from headlights, in the din of engines, tires and horns. Three bicyclists barrel down the sidewalk shouting at her for standing so stupidly. Pedestrians hurry by, nearly shouting to be heard, their words harsh and foreign.

The humid heat pulses about her, she shivers from the remembered chill of the taxi even as sweat gleams on her arms and neck. She is dressed simply in a white denim knee length skirt, a darker top, and sandals. She has the handle of her rolling suitcase in one hand. A large purse is thrown over her shoulder.

She steps forward and climbs the cement steps, the suitcase bounces tipsily behind her as if there is little in it. She stops under the apartment building’s awning, facing its wide glass doors. In the wall by the door a red eye glares unblinking at her. She fumbles in her bag and pulls out her keys. She swipes an RFID fob dangling from the ring across the red eye, it blinks, stunned. The door is open. She rattles in and across the marble floor of the entryway to the elevator. After pressing the button with the upward pointing arrow, it’s lettering incomprehensible, she leans on the wall and waits. She dimly hears the shudder as the elevator jerks into operation. When the door slides open, she all but falls through. She stares at the buttons. The lettering has strange combinations of unknown letters but the floor numbers are Arabic. She presses 26.

The elevator is mirrored, there seem to be a hundred two dimensional copies of her, all sagging with their heads drooping, clutching the brass rail, lurching as the elevator starts up. The eye is drawn to her pale white calves, reflected in all angles, her knees, one pushed forward with the hem of her skirt against it, and there’s the flat of her stomach, demurely hidden by the knit of her top, it should be bare, you think. You feel cheated. If only the elevator would break and leave her reflected images to be admired. It would be some time before she noticed in her current dazed state.

The elevator opens, she doesn’t move and the doors start to shut. She stabs at 26 again and the doors shudder and slide back open. In the hall, she peers at the door in front of her. It’s number 2607. A red winking bead of a light on the wall stares at her. She looks at it, she is tired and dazed with travel. She looks to her right, down the hall, the walls are decorated with innocuous pictures of flowering trees. The next door that way is 2605. She turns to the left and pulls her suitcase down the hall, it rolls easily despite the thick carpet.

She all but collides with number 2614. It is on the end, facing her.

She sways stupidly, staring at the closed door. She presses the door bell. No one. Her key fob waved in front of the red eye causes the lock to click. The door opens easily and she enters the darkened apartment.

Diffuse city light through large windows to her right and some distance in front lets her make out an expansive room, morphing to a kitchen on her left. She walks straight forward, her sandals clicking on the hardwood floor. She steps through an arch into a darkened hall. She fumbles with her free hand and finds a switch. A lamp hanging from the ceiling turns on. Directly in front of her is a study, she can see a couple armchairs, a desk, a glass doored cabinet. The hall runs to her left. She goes down it. Next on the right is a small bathroom, next, a bedroom. The hall ends in a larger bedroom. She goes in. It occupies a corner of the building. Through one tall broad window a chaos of tall buildings glitters in the distance, through the other is another apartment building with rows of windows and balconies, curtains mostly drawn.

A switch on the wall by the door turns on a pair of lamps on either side of a large bed. The light is soft. It throws her reflection upon the windows, she looks so sweet, mingled with the city and neighboring buildings.

She lifts the suitcase onto the bed and opens it. It’s empty. She pauses looking at it. Her lips are open, her tongue touches her lower lip then vanishes. She lifts the strap of her bag over her head, her hand trembling a little. She lays the bag in the suitcase. She grips her knit top, lifts it out of her skirt, and pulls it over her head, shaking her hair free. She drops the top into the suitcase.

She reaches behind her back and fumbles with her bra. She looks very entrancing, the lacy cups holding her breasts, the bones of her shoulders shifting as she twists. Her fingers tremble, clumsy.

The bra comes off, its thin straps sliding down her shoulders, down her arms, her breasts bouncing free. They are fine, seeming to inhabit some critical breathless size, any larger and they must collapse and droop against her belly. Her nipples are large and gleaming, just slightly pinker than her so white skin. Kocamustafapaşa Escort One can see a fine circular tracing of blue blood vessels about their edges. Their little tips are pert and erect.

Next she undoes the buttons of her skirt. It falls down her thighs, over her knees and puddles on the carpet about her feet. She grips the elastic of her panties, white, squarish and sensible and pulls them down, stretches them over her bottom and lets them fall as well. She sits, leans forward, her breasts press against her thighs. She undoes her sandals and grabs the pile of clothing and dumps it all in the suitcase.

She stands. Her bottom is full and firm, it seems to call for hands to grip it and lift and lay her on the bed exhaustedly languorous and open. You wish you were with her, that’d you’d just spent a day of sweet agony next to her on the plane.

Perhaps she feels the same. She looks at the bed and listens to the silence and sighs.

She pulls her hair back and fumbles with her left ear, then her right. There is a brief glitter as her earrings fall onto the pile of clothes. There is sweat on her upper lip and shoulders, she is breathing quickly as if she is exercising.

She bends, rummages briefly and pulls out her bag. She opens it and takes out her cellphone and her passport with the visa safely tucked within. She clutches them for a moment, then looks about the room. She goes to the closet, opens it’s dark wood door and drops to her knees. She reaches far to the right. Then straightens, hands empty. She goes to the suitcase and closes it. She picks it up and starts to leave. She hesitates in the hall, swaying with fatigue.

She turns, puts the suitcase back on the bed, opens it. She goes back to the closet, her ass is once again her high point, her cunt clearly visible, its lips, partially hidden by fine dark hair, are tightly closed. Her secrets are twice protected.

She retrieves the phone and passport and visa. She stands and all but throws them into the suitcase. In a hurry she shuts it and trundles it out, down the passage across the open expanse to the front door. She opens the door quickly. She is lit by the hall light, harsh on her soft form. The hall is empty. She puts the suitcase against the wall and steps back into the apartment.

She leans back against the door, eyes closed, breathing hard. She is so pretty there in the dimness, her waist is narrow, her shoulders and bottom pressed to the wood, her hair wild, her breasts rising and falling. Her eyes are closed and her lips are open.

She shakes her head, sending her hair flying, rubs her eyes and in the half light she drifts about the apartment. The living space, to her right is open, it seems to be cluttered with a profusion of plants. The floor is hardwood, slippery to her feet. Near the window is a round wicker table with a bowl of flowers in its center. She steps up to it letting its edge rub her thigh. It’s surface is a mirror covered by a net of shellacked twine woven in an elaborate floral pattern. A bowl of cut flowers, roses and lilies, is at its center. Looking down she just sees her reflection, it is like she is locked behind an eastern screen in some harem, all but hidden in the dark, looking out at life. Two wicker dinner chairs are pulled up to the table. The sight of the two chairs, colorless yet companionable in the dimness relaxes her. She sighs and leans on one of them.

She looks out the window. A deck runs along the outside. It is dark and blocks the view down. There is the scream of a siren, blue lights flicker against the apartment building across the way and flash on the ceiling above her.

She moves along the window, flowers and plants on the window sill brush her hips and legs. She comes to the corner. She finds herself looking out across a dark expanse at the glittering city. A plane with its flashing colored lights drops over the dark emptiness, little higher than the buildings. The airport can’t be much further to the left. She watches the plane with faint hopefulness.

She droops, very tired and dazed. She slips soundlessly back to the arch into the hallway to the bedroom. She pauses and looks back at the front door for a moment. She gathers herself, turns the hall light out and slips into the bedroom. The bed is a huge beige peninsula.

Her keys with the apartment’s RFID fob lie where she dropped them. “Crap,” she mutters, the sound echos in the silent apartment. She grabs the keys and darts back to the front door. The suitcase is still just outside. She slips the keys into an outside compartment, keeping the door open with her leg.

Next thing she knows she is in bed in the darkened room, covers pulled to her chin. She squirms comfortably, relishing the feel of silk on flesh. She suddenly sits up and listens intently, eagerly. All is dim silence. She drops back and is asleep.

The sun wakes her. It flows unimpeded through the windows, across a low table covered Escort Kocamustafapaşa with a riot of flowering houseplants, across the carpet, over the covers and finally through the twists of her hair and into her eyes. The beige bedcovers shine, outdone only by the sun on her bare shoulders, arms and the bits of her face that show through her hair.

She groans and stretches. She turns quickly, looking beside her. She is alone. She sits up, clutching the covers to her breasts. She smiles and lets the covers fall. What you wouldn’t do to slip into bed beside her. She shakes her head to set her hair flying then looks around.

There is not a clock in the room if that’s what she’s looking for. She stretches and reaches for the table by the bed and pulls out its drawer. It is empty.

There are 2 heavy wooden dressers, their tops cluttered with african violets and curious painted wooden statuettes of babies and women. There is the open closet, she frowns at it in recollection. A second open door shows a bathroom.

She slips out of bed and hurries across to the bathroom. She bends slightly forward as she moves, shy, though there is of course no no one to see her.

The bathroom is large, sporting a whirlpool, a large shower stall, a sink and a toilet. On the sink, soap, shampoo, a hairdryer and a hairbrush, toothpaste and a toothbrush sit neatly lined up under the mirror.

Sun pours in over the gleaming fixtures from a window behind the whirlpool. On the sill is a profusion of plants intermingled with dolls sitting looking blankly into space.

She frowns at her reflection. She is so attractive, leaning there, eyes dark and still sleep and travel crazed, eyebrows and hair dark brown, hair snaking all over, lips red and full, chin, perhaps too large, dimpled and strong, a few freckles scatter about her shoulders. She has her arms crossed over her breasts, you will her to release them, and after a moment she does, laying her hands flat on the counter. There are several freckles on the silky inner sides of those breasts.

If only you were there to embrace her from behind, place your hands on her narrowing waist, slide your hands up her sides and around and under those breasts, grip them and press them together inner side to inner side, grip them and squeeze, and feel them puddle up through your fingers. Though your fingers are splayed they don’t begin to cover all the territory. When you drop your hands how you would admire the red imprints left on her fair skin.

It is if as she reads your mind. She closes her eyes and murmurs “Hmmm” with her deepest back of the throat voice and fondles her nipples, far more tenderly than you would like.

She opens her eyes with a sudden laugh, sticks her tongue out at her reflection, and takes the soap and shampoo into the shower.

After a steaming glistening time, she steps out, water dripping onto the mat. She listens, the apartment is quiet save for a dieing drip from the shower head. “David?” she calls. Nothing. She shakes her head at her foolishness and shivers.

She drys her hair a bit, then with a second towel drys herself. She wraps it around her body and tucks it above her breasts and takes the hair dryer. She pauses, looking at herself in the misty dripping mirror. She undoes the towel and hangs it on the rack and then takes the dryer and a brush and works on her hair. As her arms move up and about, her breasts swing and bob.

Dry, she steps into the bright sunlit bedroom. She shivers and looks around. The thermostat is on the hallway wall, just inside the arch that leads to the living area. It reads 22. She frowns, pushes her hair back and glares at it. She shrugs and turns it to 30. There is a faint sigh and then a deeper stillness as the airconditioning cuts out. The apartment is now impossibly still. She shivers again.

She looks about, seeing the place clearly for the first time. It is very bright, the sun seems to touch everything. All the furniture seems to be wicker. Behind and to her left, next to the floor to ceiling windows facing the city, a wicker couch and pair of chairs circle a wicker coffee table with a mirrored top. There are wicker endtables and wicker stands and along the windows low wicker benches. Every flat surface is adorned with plants, plants and small wooden figurines. There are fat wooden babies nestling in the dirt amongst leaves and flowers. Wooden mothers and children in rustic Central European dress peer through grassy spider plants and twisting ivy like weird jungle explorers. On shelves climbing the walls are countless dolls in bright rural festival clothing staring vacantly every which way.

She is not as at ease as she had been in the night, drunk with fatigue. One hand lingers over her sex, the other hooks over her shoulder so her arm partially hides her breasts. She hesitates in the archway, leaning against the wall.

She slips across the open space to the front door. She moves slower then Kocamustafapaşa Escort Bayan a trot, but faster than the step of someone comfortable in their own home in the morning. She is skittish as your cute daughter, serving beer to your superbowl crowd.

She opens the door a crack. The suitcase is gone. There is the sound of a door opening down the hall. Hurriedly she ducks back in.

On the kitchen counter, a rich veined granite, sits a basket of croissants, partially covered by a white napkin. Next to it is a stainless steel coffee maker. She goes and touches its thermos, it’s warm. She opens the refrigerator, the cold air pours over her, highlighting the lingering wetness between her thighs. On the top shelf sits a quart of milk, a pitcher of orange juice, and a quart of french vanilla yogurt. Next shelf down, there are two bowls, one containing yellow chicken curry, the other rice with flecks of red, both bowls shrink wrapped. On the bottom is a salad. The plastic wrap makes the little pearly shrimp hiding amongst the lettuce and tomatoes seem to shine.

She checks a couple of drawers and finds silverware and cloth napkins. In the cabinets above the counter she finds gleaming glasses, cups, and plates.

Making several trips, she neatly sets the table for two, pouring both orange juices, setting the croissants between the two places. She only serves the yogurt to herself.

She pauses. The table is very attractive. There is the netted string table cloth with its large floral patterns, the mirrored table top under it, the square placemats made of thin wooden slats, the cups and saucers and the glasses and silver. The colors of the flowers in the vase in the center are brilliant in the sun. They can only have been cut yesterday.

What every breakfast craves this one has, a beautiful girl hovering by the table, clean and fresh and soft and exposed.

She glances at the door and sighs. She sits, the cushion is pleasant on her bottom, the chair’s back feels odd against her spine and shoulder blades so she sits straight for the moment. The string net table cover falls far over the side of the table spreading across her thighs when she slides her chair up to the table. When she leans forward for her juice, she feels the table’s edge with the netted roughness on her belly.

She looks at her napkin where it lies on the table, smiles and does not bother with it. “No clothes to stain,” she murmurs. The silence of the apartment gives her pause, the countless dolls and figurines seem to listen and absorb any sound. She shivers and says nothing else.

She eats a leisurely breakfast. Glancing hopefully at the door every now and then. A croissant flake drops onto her breast, she looks at the empty chair, smiles and bends her head. With her chin hard on her chest and her hand lifting the breast from beneath she can just lick the crumb, leaving a gleaming circle of moisture on the soft skin. She looks again at the empty chair and sighs.

Finished, she pours herself a cup of coffee. It is black and strong and fills the air with a rich relaxing scent. She leans back. She has her thighs and knees pressed together. She frowns, then negligently lifts one leg and dangles it over the chair’s near arm, the arm’s rounded wood presses up under her knee. One hand goes to cover her sex, but she diverts it and lays it on the table. It fingers the unused napkin. If only someone was there to see her! To admire the soft thigh and exposed sex. Her lips down there are closed tight. Even when she is on her back with legs spread, those lips stay tight, hiding what lies within. Hers does not spill out like an overflowing orchid.

There is a lock clicking sound, she jumps up, smiling. “David?” She realizes the sound came from outside, down the hall. She faintly hears harsh men’s voices, foreign and incomprehensible, they fade. The apartment is dead silent.

She sighs. She clears the table, putting away the clean dish and the clean silver. When she bends to put her plate and glass in the dishwasher, one has a pleasant view of the spread of her bottom, those tender lips, the backs of her soft thighs.

She straightens and moves to the spread of window facing the city. Already she seems to be less self conscious, more at ease. The fingers of one hand play idly in her thick brown hair as she gazes through the glass, the other hand is flat on the window. The glass is warm.

The sun hangs a brilliant singularity almost a foot above the tallest of the buildings. Over the deck railing she can see that between her building and the city there’s a large expanse of greenish mud with wooden pilings stuck about like crazy toothpicks. In the center of the mud is a wide twisting snake of greenish yellowish water.

After standing for an indeterminate time she turns and looks about the room. She frowns. There are no clocks, there is also no TV, no entertainment center, no books or magazines even, no phone. She goes across to the kitchen. The microwave is hung under a cabinet over the cook top. She stands on tiptoe, her legs together, the tops of her thighs and bottom coming together in a tight diamond.

The microwave’s controls are marked with indecipherable runs of letters. She presses several. It beeps, numbers show, and a fan starts before she happens on what must be clear. No clock makes itself evident.

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