He disabled the burglar alarm then pushed the metal pick into the door lock at the back of the house; let the tool play across the lock's pin. Too much or too little pressure, too little or too much finesse guaranteed failure. The skill in using a pick is to bounce it in the keyway according to the resistance offered by each pin. Gently coercing the pins into obeying his will, he was sensitive to the sound, the feel of the pick touching each pin. Feeling the middle pins settling first, he decreased the torque of his wrist, the endpins fell into place.
Trousers, shirt, windbreaker and sneakers all black covered his body. A black beret covered his closely cropped hair. Surgical gloves, the kind doctors use for rectal exams, dentists use laboring on teeth covered his hands and they too were black. He picked up his backpack, black of course, with his left hand. The only black accessory he was missing, a black mask covering his eyes. Nevertheless, a police officer seeing him would know he was up to no good. However, the garments got him in the right frame of mind, aided in his character development and added a fillip to his nocturnal transgressions.
Easing the door open, he entered the house, a sprawling two-story brick and flagstone dwelling. His soft-soled shoes not making a sound, he passed through the house, made his way to the living room and crossed the dark smudge of carpet to one of the easy chairs, part of the room's conversation pit. The room seemed to have less light then a coffin buried under eight feet of soil. He sat down and for nearly an hour, he did nothing but stare into space letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He loved this part, the waiting, the anticipation. Wicked thoughts and salacious ideas bubbled in his brain. In the house's quiet envelope, the loudest sound the ticking of the clock in the living room. When he could see the hands of his watch with the fullest clarity possible in the dark room, he stood, unzipped the backpack. He folded the beret, stowed it, removed a black ski mask with yellow circles around the eye and mouth holes, and slipped it over his head as he made his way to the closed door of the house's master bedroom. During an earlier visit, he oiled the door's hinges with 3-1 oil. Now, turning the doorknob clockwise, he entered the room, the hinges moving silently, not squeaking, sounding like the caterwaul of an air raid siren blasting away the room's quiet. At this precise moment, removing his hand from the doorknob, its coolness penetrating the glove's thin skin of fabric, his cock hardened. He always got erect at this point. He reveled in the sensation generated by the sensitive head of his cock head rubbing against the seam of his pants.
Closing the door he stood as still as a fence post watching her sleeping under a quilt in a queen-sized four-poster bed. At this distance, all he could see was a substantial form under the sheets and quilt. Closer in he saw with greater clarity of course. Amidst the ruckus of linen, he saw one of her firm, full breasts. At the summit, a fudge colored nipple stood quite prominently. Her right leg peeking from under the sheets looked as though a god with a leg fetish had a hand in her creation. He imagined the guy tooling her legs to ensure they looked sexy as now in repose or stunningly alluring in come fuck me pumps at other times. A cloud of tousled blond hair covered the contour of thick foam pillows. Her jaw line slightly too sharp, her nose a tad too prominent, her mouth a tad too full. In conjunction though their composite created a most beguiling portrait framed by the lozenges of pillows supporting her head.
He watched her sleeping, the proverbial princess, patiently awaiting her Prince Charming. Tonight he was no Prince Charming though.
He squatted down, the movement causing his knees to make a crackling sound like crumpling paper.
He slowly unzipped the backpack's main pouch. Reaching into the bag's interior he quickly found a small white penlight, the same type favored by doctors. Actually, this particular pen light once belonged to a doctor, a luscious female doctor with long auburn hair, a tiny cleft in her left buttock, a vivid red rose tattoo on her left hip and a kinky disposition as it turned out. Slowly he stood. Let the festivities begin.
He flicked the light on, pointed it at the woman's closed eyelids. Click on. Click off. Click on. Click off. Click on Click off.
Tonight he was Marcel Marceau. No words, all action, masculine action. It always amazed him how effective an ally a mute tongue was in such a situation. Oral communications between him and his conquest only acted as a barrier, it slowed his ascent to the summit, delayed his arrival in the Promised Land.
The light's beam, the clicking noise awakened her. For a moment, she silently stared at the specter next to the bed. Then as though she had to think about it, she screamed. The palm of his left hand quickly stifled the scream bellowing out of her non-smoking jogger's lungs. For a few moments, her eyes filled with terror, she squirmed, tried to strike out at him as he held his hand over her mouth. Eventually, she stopped screaming yet continued to lash out at him, trying to scratch him, land a punch on his body. Fear made the whiteness in her eyes glow as brightly as candle flame. He patted her head, scooped her out of her warm covers and dumped her on the lushly carpeted floor.
He knew from his previous expeditions that the bedroom was virtually soundproof. Once on a Sunday afternoon while she was out and about he had entered the house, made sure all the windows were closed, turned the plasma TV to its maxed out volume, cranked the expensive CD player's volume right off the dial. Stepping outside, he could barely hear a sound leaking from the house. He could howl like a banshee if that is how he decided to play it. She could scream loud enough to trigger avalanches or call cows home from distant pastures. All to no avail.
Sprawled on the carpeted floor with her smooth and shapely legs pulled into her waist, she was a sexy ball of trembling flesh, tousled yellow hair and red painted toenails.
"Please don't hurt me."
Placing his index finger in front of his mouth, the sign to be quiet, he shook his head back and forth to assure her that he meant her no physical harm.
Her translucent panties, green gauze, hugged the globes of her shapely firm ass. She was topless, wonderfully topless. Looking down at her curled on the floor, seeing her tits in profile, how bounteous she was. She was no plain, drab, and random off the rack female mediocrity. From the top of her head to the tip of her toes, she was a designer original.
Reaching into the backpack, he removed a white plastic locking tie. Now they used them at airports to secure bags following intense scrutiny for explosives. Years ago, at other bloodier times, he used the same sort of sturdy plastic straps to secure angry eyed Africans, the little fish captured in the net trolling for their boss, a big African asshole terrorizing his fellow tribe members.
Leaning down he pushed her slender arms toward each other, looped the plastic ties around her wrists to abbreviate her range of motion. Then, tenderly, like a lover toting his bride to their marriage bed, he picked her off the floor and placed her in the center of the bed. He stroked her hair, touched each of her ear lobes in turn and then after removing his gloves; he reached into her panties, touched the delectably fine hair at her cleft then in one swift motion he ripped her panties off her body. The sound so sexy, the action clear in its intent, a sure fire notice of his boiling lust. His cock ached. Touching her nearly made him explode. His body tingled and the inside of his mouth felt parched as though he stumbled through Saharan sand dunes.
He considered pushing his index finger into the canal between her legs. He resisted the notion. Not yet.
"Please don't hurt me," She said in monotone, the signature of a bad actor. He patted her bottom with his left hand.
Quickly, he removed the gloves and his clothes save for the ski mask and his pale gray boxer shorts.
