Obsession

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Caught In The Web: Part One

Sheila was fascinated, intrigued by the powerfully erotic stories of the mystery woman known only as “Nadine.” It took all her courage to arrange, and then go through with the meeting with the imperious webmistress. Was Sheila looking for love in all the wrong places?

Carefully balancing the brimming cup of mocha, Sheila maneuvered her way through the clutter of small round tables to find a place next to the windows. From her vantage point, she could observe the blank facade of the non-descript apartment building on the other side of 6th Avenue. The row of shops along the street floor were starting to open for the new day. The sun was laying down a precise band of morning light, illuminating the top three tiers of windows, glinting off their shiny rectangles. The remaining rows were still in shadow, their windows untouched, opaque, and anonymous.

Sheila studied the square matrix of windows, knowing that somewhere up there was the woman: “Nadine.” Was it her real name? Was the woman, even now, standing behind one of those windows, inching back a drape just a crack to look down on the awninged canopy over the front door, watching for Sheila’s arrival?

Sheila was keyed up; had been all week. This morning she skipped breakfast; not hungry, far too nervous to eat. A wave of fluttery anxiety had settled in her stomach. It would take all her courage to go through with this, and she still wasn’t sure she could do it. She shifted in her seat, crossed and uncrossed her slim, stockinged legs, tugged the narrow skirt down to the top of her knees. She cupped the mocha in both hands, reassured by its warmth.

Of course, she was early. She knew that. Sheila drew the cup closer; eased back a gabardine sleeve to check her watch. Looked up once again at the even rows of windows. Twenty minutes early. She adjusted the sleeve back into place, covering the oversized face of her watch. It wouldn’t do – for her to show up early. She knew instinctively that Nadine would expect her to be on time; right on time. Not early; not late. Nadine had made clear to her that she had her standards, her rules. She would expect compliance with those rules. A quiver went through Sheila. She noticed her hands were shaking a little as she lifted the cup, and took a sip of the bubbly milk.

Now, as she sat at the marble-topped table staring up at the even rows of windows, she thought about her life, and the hopelessness of it all. She didn’t think Robin’s going would affect her like this. They both had agreed it was for the best. Their relationship had died some time ago; the spark of life gone out of it. Still, she felt adrift without Robin. And Robin’s not being there, made the apartment seem so empty.

It was ok at first, but gradually the loneliness had set in. And now she was so lonely…so terribly, terribly lonely.

The days weren’t too bad. She could spend those buried in work, but the nights were something else. Those were spent restlessly roaming the internet in her darkened apartment, her intense blond features bathed in the light of her computer screen. Like a hyperactive moth flitting among a thousand points of light, searching, driven by her desperation and, to her surprise, an unbelievable sense of randiness that seemed to seize her each time she slid into the seductive promise of cyberspace.

It had been Nadine’s stories that drew her in, tales of love between women, if “love” was the right word for it. They told of power, of s****l domination and sweet and total submission, of captive lovers — obsessed and helpless, caught in a web.

That same wave of randiness swept over her now at the thought of Nadine’s website – sitting out there, like a spider’s web with its imperial webmistress, a self-contained, patient woman, perfectly prepared to wait to see who might show up.

She let her mind drift to its image of Nadine: an older woman, with a stern face; tightly-drawn lips set in grim determination. Under the table, the blond girl’s restless legs shifted uneasily, closed; her thighs clenched, and she straightened up with a wiggle as the knot of lust tightened in her belly.

Her mental picture of the remote woman was always the same, but it was one constructed entirely from the reflected glory of those wonderful, highly arousing stories: Nadine’s stories of lesbian infatuation that left her shaken, breathless and sweating. Those stories, and the curt, tight-lipped e-mail messages were all she had to go on. The woman gave her nothing more. What if Nadine turned out to be some dumpy, saggy, middle-aged, frump? Or worse, what if she were one of those muscle-bound, tattooed dykes, a body-pierced sadistic menace with lip-rings and spiked hair. She shuddered. What had she gotten herself into? A wave of desperation swept over her. This was dangerous! Sheila shook off the scary thoughts.

No, the stories were too elegantly drawn to have been written by a thug! Still, what did she really know about Nadine? Next to nothing, while Nadine knew all about her; demanded details; insisted she reveal herself, bit by bit. And later, when she graduated into the chatroom and finally into their own private corner of the chatroom, Nadine had asked for, pestered, insisted on — a photo. Sheila dutifully scanned an old picture she had of herself, one of the few where Robin wasn’t in the picture, and she sent that one along. A tentative offering sent with butterflies in her stomach.

The picture was taken years ago, by her roommate in college. In those days, her silvery blond hair was much longer, and she wore it tied back in a perky pony tail. She had on a pair of tight-fitting jeans; her favorite blazer over a thin tank-top. Casual, yet kind of preppy, she thought. It was taken from the balcony as she stood in the yard behind her dorm, and she was squinting up at the camera from under her bangs with a tentative smile on her lips. Sheila wasn’t happy with the picture, but it was the best she had.

Now she turned and caught a glimpse of her reflected face in the mirrored pillars of the coffee shop. The face was older than the face in that picture, the eyes sadder, the lines more pronounced. She seemed pale and drawn; wished she had used a little more makeup today. What she saw was a gray-suited blond woman, not exactly young but reasonably good looking, she thought, with soft brown eyes, a delicate nose and chin, wide full mouth. Still attractive, but no longer the college girl. Today, she wore her hair up, fine, sleek hair pulled back from her face and gathered in a very short pony that looped softly above the nape of her neck. Nadine told her to do that, to wear it pulled it back like that — like it was in that picture, from so many years ago.

***

Although there was a camera trained on the entrance to the apartment, Sheila wondered about it. Was it was really working? She knew that sometimes dummy cameras were installed in apartment buildings. They were cheaper. Still, if this one was active, the observer would have seen, striding hurriedly up to the glass doors, an attractive blond woman, who now stopped on the top step to study the double panel of doorbells. The woman was in her thirties or maybe early forties; sharply dressed in a mauve blouse under a trim gray suit well-tailored to her slender figure. She might have been some businesswoman, a saleswoman perhaps, scurrying off to some meeting with client. The woman was clearly nervous, biting a curled lower lip, looking around with the furtive glances of a thief about to case a job. She brushed back a sleeve to consult her watch one last time. Then, with wiggle of her shoulders she came to attention, squared her narrow shoulders, smoothened her bangs, took a deep breath, and quite deliberately pressed the button beside number 820. She noticed that, unlike the others, there was no name in the rectangular slot beside 820.

Sheila was mildly disappointed that her ring did not immediately summon Nadine’s disembodied voice. Instead, there were a few seconds delay, long seconds while she stood there all a-tingle, her palms sweating. She straightened upright, tightened her grip on the purse she wore slung over her left shoulder; waited tensely for some sort of response; her rising excitement a palpable thing. The angry buzz, when it finally came, caused the girl to jump. She recovered quickly, and made a grab for the handle of the big glass door just as the buzz faded away.

It was a short walk down the deserted lobby; high heels clicking, echoing on the hard tiled floor. She paused as she stood facing the bank of elevators, as if once more wavering, uncertain. This was it! She could still turn and run, beat a hasty retreat out through those glass doors, fly down the concrete steps to the street below, back to the safety and freedom of the real world. It was her last chance.

With an effort, she stifled the sudden wave of panic, and extended a slender, neatly manicured finger to touch the small orange disk that was the elevator’s call button.

The elevator was dreadfully slow, lurching from floor to floor with a muffled groan. Sheila was grateful that she was, and remained, the sole occupant all the way to the 8th floor.

She moved slowly down the silent, carpeted hallway, as though she were some condemned prisoner about to meet her fate. Summoning up all her courage, the slim, well-dressed blonde continued along the rows of identical doors till she came to number 820. There she took a breath and lightly tapped the little knocker on the metal faceplate.

The door opened. The woman who stood there was tall, taller than Sheila in her heels; a lanky woman, in her fifties, and dressed all in black, her long lean figure glamorous in the high-collared tunic and flared slacks of a silk shantung pants-suit. A splay of coarse dark hair fell down past her angular shoulders, frizzy, witchy hair — defiantly untamed. But the most remarkable feature of the women who stood regarding her in the doorway was her eyes, large dark eyes with drooping, cynical lids, heavily lined; eyes that remained absolutely expressionless.

Taken aback, Sheila stood transfixed under that unwavering gaze. A flush of awkwardness swept over her, suddenly reducing her to a schoolgirl, squirming under the accusatory eyes of an adult. The woman didn’t move. Sheila tried a smile, fumbling for words, looking down to avoid those terrible eyes.

“Hello, I’m….”

“Come in. I know who you are.”

Of course she knew! Sheila flushed embarrassed with how ridiculous she immediately felt. She was such a fool! The door opened wide; the woman in black stood back to allow her guest to enter.

The apartment Sheila stepped into was cool and spacious, done in white and muted off-white, walls adorned with photographs in black and white, the furniture starkly modern in black vinyl and gleaming chrome. The large windows on the far side of the room must have overlooked 6th avenue; but now the creamy drapes were drawn, cutting off the outside light. Instead, the room was lit by strategically placed torchieres, augmented with indirect light flooding up from behind a row of bookcases.

The rooms were minimally, but tastefully decorated, with the occasional potted plant lending a spray of green. The only other color in Nadine’s monochromatic world was a brilliant Persian rug overlaid on the pearl gray wall-to-wall carpet. The thought went through Sheila’s mind: A rug that size must cost a fortune!

Sheila stopped after only a few steps into the room, hesitating while the taller woman slid behind her. She heard the door lock with a definite click; the rattle of the security chain being re-attached.

Sheila was about to compliment her hostess on the elegant decor, when suddenly, unexpectedly, Nadine stepped up close behind her, bringing their bodies into light contact, causing her to gasp.