Call me Cari, everyone else does. This is my story of deception, questionable abduction, and passion.
My parents named me Caroline after some great aunt Caroline Everett whom I never had the pleasure to meet. She was from the west, and lived on a ranch which took so much time and effort to rebuild after the depression, when it almost fell into ruins. Since then, someone in my family always cared for the ranch house and loved it so much they could easily spend all their savings merely maintaining it. It looked, except for the mountains and sage, like it could belong in Louisiana or another southern state. After Aunt Caroline died, which was long before I was born, my parents moved into the house. I was actually born in the house, during a fierce winter storm and nearly a hundred miles away from the nearest hospital. God bless my mother.
I grew up in the mansion on the hill, the ranch house. My bedroom was a throwback to the past where ladies were ladies and men were real men. Chivalry felt as though it were still alive there. There were many outbuildings, some of which I knew what they were used for, others of which were locked or the doors were stuck, so I never looked inside to see what secrets they held (only after I broke my arm once trying). I decided when I was in high school that the name Caroline was too formal and old fashioned, so I changed my name to Cari. I liked living in the past with my imagination, but I realized that I needed to start my own identity, separate from the family, the house, and definitely the long-dead aunt.
As a child, I imagined the old dresses in the attic were mine. The intricate hand-made gowns were beautiful and, I assume, expensive. They were all packed with care, as if they were going to be used again the next season. There were diaries which were packed away, labeled by year, written mainly by people named Amanda and Steven. I was told once they were some of my ancestors. They were of no use to a child, though, so they were left alone and forgotten. I grew up and went off to college. After four and a half years I was a graduate thinking I could make a difference in the world. My degree was in history, specializing in historic architecture. I had a start in a career in a prestigious firm, only to find out I wasn't hired due to my academic record.
Maybe I should take this time to tell you about myself. I am about 5'8" and somewhat curvy in all the right places. My eyes are blue, and my skin is fairly pale. Though one would think it would clash with my pale features, I have beautiful chestnut brown hair, which is a slight shade of auburn in the winter: it is my pride and joy, next to my eyes. My eyes are my absolute best feature. They are the only pair of tri-color eyes that I have seen since my mother passed away. The outer iris is a dark blue, followed by a thicker band of gray-blue. The third ring is around the pupil, but it is a light gold color, straight from my mother. From years of walking and climbing to discover my own home and property, as well as the religious rides on my horses, I am well muscled, but only enough to make my posture impeccable and body fantastic. I also don't need to work out religiously like some other women my age.
But I wasn't even hired for my body. I was hired for my house (the senior associates' decisions). Yes, it is actually my house now; Mom and Dad were in an accident while I was in college. They left me everything: the house and all the grounds, the cars, the money, the desire to keep the house up. I even have some family property in Ireland, though I have hired a care-taker, I haven't been there since. I love Ireland almost as much as I love my ranch home. I decided even though I had enough money to continue with the house as I wanted, I knew that I needed experience. So I took my degree and my resume and set out to find a job. Within two days I was given the directions to start on the next Monday in the city nearest my home in Colorado. It was a forty five minute commute each way, but I was willing if it meant I could stay at my home.
It wasn't long before I met Him, Stephen Dalton. It never took long, no matter where I was, for guys to start hitting on me. He was my immediate supervisor, and I had no proof of harassment, because it hadn't been harassing. He had just mentioned he would like to take me to dinner, business, he said. He was different than the other men and boys who had hit on me before. He had this subtle demanding way about him that was almost pleasing.
I didn't really believe that his interest was genuine, other than a few drinks and lusty petting, call me a skeptic. But after about three months of invitation, I finally accepted. I ended up having him over to my house, also to ask his opinion about taking out an addition which had be poorly added in the early 1900's (I believe they had meant it to be a sleeping porch in the summer, but it was now an oddity on the house. To save myself embarrassment and the feeling of being self conscious, I asked one of my house helpers, a younger high school girl, to stay with me and help serve during the dinner. Something told me I didn't want to be completely alone with him. I offered her a little extra bonus for her help.
He came over that evening and it went off without a hitch. He never gave any advances I didn't want. We talked companionably, walked around the grounds before the sun set, and I asked him his advice about that ungodly addition. We had glasses of wine in our hands, walking around the property and talking like old friends. Now, don't get me wrong. I like sex, though I am not very experienced with men (I had had a couple college sweethearts, but that was the extent). I would have even wanted sex, if I had known him better and did not work with him. I never wanted to cross that line. He placed his hand on my shoulder when we were outside, which was all he touched me. It felt good, almost right, and it made my breath catch like I had just been shocked. I was beginning a small infatuation, and had yet to admit it to myself. When he left that evening, I let the girl, Mandy, go home. I had already taken a bath that evening, but I decided I wanted to try and wash some of my sexual tension away.
I guess I forgot to describe the man who set my primal urges off. He is a tall man, older than I. I would place him in his mid-thirties, and I am only 25. The age difference bothers me a little. His voice is like a rich cream, deep and sexy, one that I could listen to every day. His face was pleasant, though he had a couple of subtle scars near his left eye. They didn't detract from his handsomeness at all. His hair was a dark brown, though it was prematurely graying in places, only adding to his sex appeal.
******
I drew a bubble bath and begin to relax. At first I just leaned back, allowing the bottom of my hair get wet. Slowly I began rubbing the places which were ached the most. My breasts, my thighs, my tunnel of heat... An hour later I had pleased myself greatly, with two nice releases. I had learned in college to spend a little extra money on special toys. They really helped get through the nights of sleeplessness before my exams. One I had found, and replaced with other styles, was a waterproof vibrator. I was weak from the hot water and the climaxes as I climbed out of the claw-footed tub. I went to my room, I had forgotten my bath robe, but didn't need to wrap with anything, since I was the only one home.
I walked over to my bed, and found the note and one of my more decadent nighties which had been placed on the pillow.
Dearest Caroline,
I just wanted to let you know I definitely enjoyed your time this evening. Especially the performance only I was privy to. I wish to extend an invitation to my house tomorrow for dinner. Tomorrow is your day off, so take some extra time with your hair and makeup. I wonder if you have ever had your hair cut, as long and willful as it is. A package will arrive tomorrow at noon, please accept it as a gift. I would like to discuss a little, shall we say, business arrangement. I will send my car at six.
As for this nightgown: I would like to imagine you sleeping in it tonight. I would also like to imagine you rubbing yourself for me this evening when you begin to get drowsy. Rub yourself and cum as much as you want to. Bring the nightie with you tomorrow evening, along with a few of your more favorite toys. I must say, you have quite a collection.
There is a candle placed next to your bed. Light it before you go to sleep if you are thinking about me, which I trust you will.
The note wasn't signed, but I knew who wrote it. I was a little embarrassed and upset that he had so easily been able to walk back into my home without me hearing someone inside. I then realized that I rarely lock the back door and he could have come up the back stairs without my knowing. I made a strong pact to begin locking that door.
******
I had trouble sleeping that night. I lit the candle as his note directed, because I couldn't get him off of my mind. How would he know if I had lit it anyways? I couldn't decide if it was because of unease or excitement... I tried not to think about it. It felt like I was being watched all the time. I wore the nightie as directed, and even put a couple of my favorite toys in the bag for tomorrow night. I didn't want to forget anything he had directed.
