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Subject: {MikeHunt}JDR"High Rise A"(MF voy)[1/2]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
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make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
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These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
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well.
=====================
I swear there are two of me. The shrinks will tell you that "multiple
personalities" are rare, but they're wrong. I think everybody has them.
Like I'll be driving down the highway, and suddenly I'm five miles further
than I thought. Who was doing the driving for those five miles? It must
have been the other me, because it wasn't me.
Or some mornings I'll be in the shower, and I'll wonder if I've shampooed
yet. And while I'm shampooing I'll remember that I've already shampooed.
Except it wasn't me, it must have been the other me.
This is a story that was written by the other me. It's, well, different.
But hell, if Sears can have a softer side, I guess I can too. It's still
just for adults. No matter what side I write from, it just comes out that
way. Maybe me and me aren't so different after all.
=====================
High Rise
by MIKE HUNT
MrM1KE@aol.com
Section A:
The sun always came in the window at the same time, plus or minus a few
minutes. When I'd rented the place in November I thought the apartment was
sunny and bright. I'd toured it in the early afternoon, and the large window
in the bedroom was flooded with the crisp light of a late fall afternoon.
"I'll take it," I said, making a snap decision. "Can you do any better
on the price?"
"Afraid not," the building manager said. "It's $1200 a month, not including
utilities. Still, it's a pretty good rent for the location and the view."
"Yeah," I said, doing some quick calculations in my head. Add electricity,
phone, hot water, and I'd just make it. "Heat's included, right?" I asked.
"Yes, heat and air conditioning are included. Central system. You control
it with the thermostat back in the living room. We'd appreciate it if you
wouldn't control it by opening the windows, cause that just wastes energy
and then everybody pays more."
"Sure, sure," I said. "OK, I'll take it."
It took another half hour to return to the rental office and fill out
the paperwork, and 24 hours before the company did a credit report on me
and checked with my last landlord. I moved in the following Saturday.
On Sunday I noticed the light. There wasn't much. With the advantage of
time and leisure I looked out the bedroom window and noted that the adjacent
building blocked the morning sun. I'd seen the building next door, of course,
I just hadn't taken time to calculate the angle and figure out that the
sun didn't pop over it until late in the day. Ah well.
In truth it was a great place anyway. From the living room I could go
through a set of sliding glass doors to a tiny porch, and from there
actually see Lake Michigan. OK, I could see a sliver of Lake Michigan in
between some of the other high rises that were closer to the water. Still,
up on the 8th floor I had quite a spectacular view if I chose to avail
myself of it.
The building that blocked the light was just as tall as mine, just as
new, and similarly designed. From my bedroom window I looked out into a set
of little porches, the wrought iron railings stacked almost like fire escape
landings one atop another all the way to the ground. The ones that I could
see all were outfitted with the same "building approved" furniture, two white
plastic chairs and a tiny round table suitable for two coffee cups and maybe
a danish. The one directly out and below the window had some flower boxes
perched on the railing; they were filled with brown dirt.
I went about my business for the next several months. I arranged furniture.
I rearranged furniture. I hung pictures. I painted the bathroom. Mostly
I suffered through another bitter Chicago winter, went to work, and came
home. Once in a while I went to a movie or maybe a bar on Rush Street.
In four months I spent less than 20 minutes on my porch. If you think
it's windy and bitter on Michigan Avenue in January, try it 8 floors up
near the Lake. No matter how inviting it looks from inside the glass, it
isn't. I had a date up there sometime in December, I forget exactly when,
but she insisted on going out to see "the view." So we bundled up in our
heavy winter coats and went out and sat in the stupid little chairs. We
lasted about five minutes.
It was in early March that I happened to glance out my bedroom window
onto the porch on the adjacent building. There were some small towels
draped over the window boxes, and they looked to be spiked down with
nails or bent up coat hangers or something. Someone was getting an early
start on Spring.
A couple weeks later I saw that the towels were rearranged. I probably
wouldn't have noticed, except now one of the towels had a "Chicago Magazine"
logo. I would have remembered that, since I worked for another publication
in town. I vowed to keep a closer eye on the porch. It wasn't easy, since
the porches didn't exactly line up. The floors of our buildings were "off"
a little; the street had a gentle slope to it, and the neighboring building
was down the hill.
Of course in Chicago that's a relative term, since a "hill" there is anything
that's not perfectly flat. I joked with some friends that where I was raised
in upper New York state my front yard would have been called a "mountain"
by Chicagoans. Heck, in Chicago a speed bump is practically cause for a
Kodak moment.
Anyway, the porch next door was about four or five feet below the sightline
of my bedroom window, so I had to be standing right at the window and look
down just right to see it. Which I did with increasing regularity.
Several days went by, then a week, then two. The towels changed places,
and it was obvious that someone was tending the boxes, trying to get a
jump on the growing season, protecting the incipient plants from
the vagaries of Chicago's unpredictable weather.
It was a Tuesday afternoon in late March when I finally saw her. She busied
herself removing the towels, watering the half-dozen boxes, pulling the
occasional weed, and replacing the covers on the planters. It took her
about 20 minutes to complete the exercise.
What I noticed was *her*. She was about my age, maybe 28 or 29. Brown hair,
cut in a real short pixie haircut. A nice figure. Sort of cute. Far from a
stunner, but attractive in her own way, with a little upturned nose and
round cheeks. She didn't wear a trace of make-up.
But what I really watched was her breasts. She wore a comfortable low
cut top with spaghetti strap ties around the shoulders. It was a dark blue,
and as she bent over the flowers it billowed out giving me a perfect view
down her blouse. She was completely unaware of my presence, above and 15
feet away behind the glass of my bedroom window. I stared.
I started spending more time at the window, waiting for her appearance.
I only caught her a couple times each week, though I could tell by the
movement of the chairs or towels that she was there more often. She wore
the same top most times, although even when she changed it the view was
just as good. She obviously preferred "comfortable" when she was on the
porch.
I'd enjoyed my voyeuristic little pleasure not quite a half-dozen times
when she caught me. I was standing at my window, staring down into her
blouse as usual, when she suddenly raised her head and stared straight
at me. Oops! I didn't know what to do, and then, blessed be, she waved.
I unlocked the tab that held the window shut and yanked on the sash. It
groaned but slid up a couple of feet and I leaned out. "Hi," I said, trying
to be nonchalant.
"Hi," she said. "Watching my garden for me?"
"Sort of," I lied.
"I've seen you up there a couple of times," she told me. I blushed. "Are
you a gardener, too?"
"Uh, no, not really," I replied. "I have a couple of houseplants I manage
to keep alive, but not much more." I made a mental note to go buy some new
plants for the apartment. I'd killed the one my folks sent me as a
housewarming present.
"Oh," she said. "Well, that's how I started. Then I found I liked it so
much I started putting plants in the window boxes. And this year I'm growing
everything from seeds. It makes me feel like they're all mine."
"Well you're doing great, apparently. I can see the little tips sprouting."
I caught the unintentional double entendre of my words and blushed again.
"Yeah, I think they're growing nicely," she said, apparently unaware of
my near fax paus.
"I'm surprised the building allows you to have those boxes on top of the
railing," I offered. "If one of them fell..."
"Well it's not really allowed," she answered. "but this high up who's
going to see, except maybe a neighbor in the next building?"
"Good point," I said.
"Anyway, I had my brother come over and attach them. He's a carpenter,
so I'm not worried they'll fall off."
We made idle chatter for another few minutes, and then she was done. She
said her goodbyes and retired indoors. I went into the bathroom to
masturbate.
The memory of her swaying breasts inside her loose top was as crystal clear
as a 70mm film print. And the fact that she had made no effort to conceal
herself while we were talking was even more sensual, and I came into the
toilet with little effort but with great pleasure.
A couple of days later I saw her again. I raised the sash. "Hi, it's me!"
I called out.
"Hi, it's you," she replied. "What's new?"
"Not much," I said. "Just getting ready for work."
"Oh? Where's that?" she asked.
"I'm a part-time writer for the Sun-Times." I answered.
"Really?" she said, pausing for a moment. "I read it. Maybe I've read
you?"
"Maybe," I nodded. "But probably not. I do some of the high school sports.
Mostly weekends. I get the swing shift and a little vacation fill. I only
work about four days a week, although during vacations I might work ten
days straight. It varies. My name's MIKE, by the way. But my byline is
Billy Billings."
"Why don't you use your real name?" she wanted to know.
"It's a long story," I answered. It wasn't a long story, of course, but
I didn't want to get into it.
"Billy Billings," she said. "Weird name. I can't say I remember it.
Anyway I don't read the sports section much."
"I'm not surprised," I said. "Like I said, I'm pretty irregular. At the
paper, I mean." She giggled. "Anyway, I noticed the Chicago Magazine towel
on the porch. It sort of caught my eye."
"I get it," she said.
"Say, how about coming over for a drink or something?" I asked.
"No, I don't think so," she replied, a little too quickly. She offered
no explanation, so I probed.
"Boyfriend?"
"No, definitely not. Say, I don't mean to be rude, or coy. I just, well,
I just broke up with someone and I'm not looking to get involved. Nothing
personal."
"No offense taken," I answered. "It was just for a drink. Or maybe to
see the view. I have a lovely view of somebody's garden from up here."
She giggled again.
"Honestly, I lived with a guy for six years, and we just broke up in
December,
and I'm just not in the mood to socialize. I'm sort of in a 'hermit' mode.
Really, nothing personal."
"OK," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I stood there.
Just staring.
"Anyway," she said, filling the uncomfortable silence, "once in a while
I go on-line and chat with people, but I'm really not ready to plunge into
the social scene yet. I'm still hurting a little, frankly."
"Honest, no offense taken," I repeated. I wanted to protest and try to
talk her into stopping by, but I thought better of it. "You go on-line?
You have a computer, I take it?"
"Yeah," she said. "An old Mac. It's plenty for me. All I do is some
occasional letter writing and go on AOL once in a while. How about you?"
"Not really," I said. "I have an old laptop here, and I use a machine
at work, but don't use 'em for recreational purposes." It was a bit of
a fib, but not much.
"Ah," she answered. And our time was up. She was done with the days duties,
and while she had a variety of reasons to be on the porch, I had only one
to be hanging out of an 8th floor bedroom window. With her gone, I had none.
I went inside to the dining room and sat at my computer. The familiar
AOL screen came up, the modem squawked, and the host computer greeted me.
I looked for the Digital Chicago area. With some effort I found it, and
began putting notes on various bulletin boards asking for help. Gardening
help. Seems I was trying to start some window boxes in my apartment without
success. Could anyone help me figure out what was wrong?
24 hours brought five responses. Three from guys. Two from women. None
from her.
I waited a couple of days and tried again. Seven responses. Two from people
who had responded to my earlier messages and wondered why I hadn't written.
Three from other guys. Two from women. None from her.
The next time I saw her I steered the conversation around to her computer
and found out she didn't look at the gardening section of the bulletin
board at all. She just went to the Great Outdoors chat area. She said being
cooped up in a high rise made her like talking to people who enjoyed chatting
about the trees and flowers and plants and camping and other things outdoors.
An hour later I was in front of my computer and headed straight for the
Great Outdoors forum. There weren't many messages, but I thought one about
boating might be from her. It asked where could he/she rent a boat for
a day. I did a tiny bit of research and answered the question with an e-mail.
A couple of days later I saw her at the window. I leaned out and enjoyed
the view as she worked. She bantered with me as she bent over the boxes.
We talked about nothing in particular, and even though I tried to steer
the conversation around to boating without being too obvious, she didn't
take the bait. Our 20 minutes was up. She went inside.
I went back to the computer. I honestly don't know why I tried so hard.
There are a thousand girls out there, but the clubs are a meat market and
I enjoyed chatting with her and I just, well, felt comfortable. I'd had
a dozen sessions at the window, and I knew I liked her. I thought she felt
comfortable with me, too, in spite of her self-imposed "hermit" status.
Eventually I found her. It wasn't that hard, because the "outdoor" area
wasn't well traveled, even in a city as large as Chicago. And I almost
slapped myself silly when I realized I'd passed right by her screen name
a couple of times before. She called herself "Hi Rise". Of course. I made
contact. She had no way of knowing it was me, since I used one of my screen
names, "SCOOTER". I kept up the on-line conversation with her, and over
the next few weeks our e-mail went from helpful to friendly to occasionally
downright sexy. At one point we got into a private chat room, and she let
her guard down. I might have helped.
SCOOTER: So what's new in your life?
Hi Rise: Not much. Still seeing the guy at the window.
SCOOTER: He bothers you?
Hi Rise: Oh no. I think it's kind of funny. He watches me while I garden
my window boxes. I think he likes to try to look down my shirt.
SCOOTER: Oh, that would be fun. Maybe I'll come watch you garden, too!
Hi Rise: No thanks. One "watcher" is plenty for me.
SCOOTER: Aw shucks.
Hi Rise: Well you can just be my on-line friend. Anyway, as I told you
I'm not looking for more companionship. At least at the moment.
SCOOTER: Well let me know when ;)
Hi Rise: lol
SCOOTER: Do you like the guy at the window?
Hi Rise: Yeah, sure, I guess. We talk. He's the only person I see outside
of work! And I can't really say I "see" him. He just shows up
sometimes.
SCOOTER: Good looking?
Hi Rise: OK. Anyway, I TOLD YOU I'm not looking.
SCOOTER: I know. Just wondering. Someday you might be. This "hermit" thing
will pass. It always does.
Hi Rise: I suppose. I'll know.
We got into a sort of routine. She'd come out in the afternoon to tend
her garden. I'd "happen" to be in the bedroom getting ready for work. We'd
talk. I'd look down her blouse. She'd pretend not to notice. After another
half dozen encounters I told her I was renting a boat that weekend. Maybe
she'd like to come along?
She demurred, mumbling something about visiting her folks. I didn't push.
That night I found her on line.
SCOOTER: So how's the friend?
Hi Rise: He invited me out boating this weekend.
SCOOTER: Great! Where are you going?
Hi Rise: I said no. I hope I didn't hurt his feelings.
SCOOTER: Why did you say no?
Hi Rise: I dunno. I lied and said I was going to visit my folks. It was
dumb, I guess.
SCOOTER: Boy you have me stumped. You say you like him. Well not like
him, but he's OK, right?
Hi Rise: Yes.
SCOOTER: And he's not a dwarf or something, right?
Hi Rise: lol
SCOOTER: So take the shot! Goodness girl, get a grip.
Hi Rise: Well, maybe I should have but I just got nervous and said no.
SCOOTER: I think you blew it. Maybe he'll ask again. You should say yes.
Hi Rise: Well he won't ask again, and now that I've throughbt about it
I probably would say yes, but it's too late.
Hi Rise: throughbt=thought
SCOOTER: I know.
Hi Rise: I would be nice to get out, at least.
SCOOTER: Well maybe you'll get lucky. Ha ha. Didn't mean it THAT way.
Hi Rise: lol
It was Tuesday. I didn't see her on the porch until Thursday night. She
waved.
"Hey how you doin?" I opened.
"Fine. How 'bout you?"
"Good. Just getting ready for work. Today is my Friday. I'm off for four
days now."
"Wow great. Wish I could say the same," she replied.
"So are the folks coming in to visit? Or are you going there, wherever
'there' is?" I asked.
"Oh, that got canceled. One of Mom's friends got sick, so they're staying
home," she fibbed.
I played along. "Sorry to hear it," I pretended. "So what are you doing
this weekend? Catch a movie or something, maybe?"
"I don't know," she said. "I really haven't thought about it. I'll probably
just stay in and play hermit again. I'm getting good at it."
"The offer for the boat ride is still open. I pick it up Saturday morning
at 10AM. I've got it for the whole day, but you could come out for just
an hour if you want. I'm not going out far or anything. Just going to float
around for a while."
"That actually sounds like a nice invitation. You sure you wouldn't mind
entertaining a hermit for a while?"
I chuckled. "Not at all. No entertainment provided, though. It'll just
be a couple of high rise mopes floating around enjoying the great outdoors."
I sealed the deal with a sly reference to her on-line activities. She didn't
seem to catch it. "In fact you don't have to do anything. I'm going to
pick up some sandwiches at Terfaro's and maybe bring a bottle of wine.
I have both reds and whites here in the apartment. Which do you like?"
"Which do *you* like?" she asked.
"Doesn't matter to me," I said. "They're all good. I have a Zinfandel
I don't know anything about, but I won't bring that one since I don't want
to be trapped with a lousy one if I don't like it."
"Whatever," she said. She was finishing up.
"I'll pick you up in your lobby at about 9:30 on Saturday, OK?" I asked.
"OK," she said. And that was it. She clapped her hands together to get
rid of the dirt clumps, waved, and disappeared. I grinned.
=====================
High Rise
by MIKE HUNT
Section A
-30-
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