Hugo and the Girl Next Door
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He had no idea who she was. For almost a month he had been seeing her; sometimes catching just a glimpse out of his second floor window as she walked along the shaded street in front. On a couple of occasions they had crossed paths as she was leaving the garbage shed a few blocks away when he went to dump the black polythylene bin bag into the dumpster. Once, they were in the same aisle at the community store, shopping for groceries. But most often, almost four times a week, he would spy her from his office room in the large apartment he had rented as she walked past in that stately gait of hers. Sometimes, when he was lucky, he would spot her twice in the day; the first time would be around 8:00 in the morning when he started work at his desk, and then again in the late evening if he was still at work.
She was about 5’6″ in her shoes, an attractive height on an Indian woman, and very well proportioned; her complexion was a light caramel coffee mix. She was always dressed in the traditional Indian saree, varying her pastel colours almost every day. Her hair was obviously long but she wore it in a large bun of ringlets at the back of her ahead, occasionally adorned with a string of flowers that seemed interwoven with the strands. He often fantasised about her, felt a stirring in his groin every time he spied her, and experienced a phallic erection that was always extremely hard when he pictured her naked. His nocturnal emissions, even at the age of 35, were often triggered by dreams of the woman doing incredible things to his naked body in various positions and different locations.
His name was Hugo Herve. He was a journalist working for Agence France-Presse, having begun his career as a young reporter in Bosnia and Herzegovina at the time of their parliamentary elections, and arrests of various war criminals. He had now spent the last twelve years in Asia, initially reporting from Hong Kong during the protests, and then later on the alleged ethnic cleansing happening in Myanmar. A lot of that had been clandestine work, often dangerous and extremely hazardous. Now, what he wanted was to be a writer of both fiction and non-fiction books; that was his dream but he hadn’t been able to let go the adrenaline charge of a frontline press corps member. His mentor and boss, Jean-Luc, at AFP headquarters in Paris had recently sounded him out about spending some time in Afghanistan if he felt up to it and although Hugo was excited with the idea, his dream of starting a new life as a writer was holding him back.
This evening, two days after the first downpour of the year’s rainy monsoon season, he was alone at home on a Saturday. It had been drizzling all afternoon but at about 7:30 pm he heard the sounds of rumbling thunder and the occasional distant crack of lightening as the wind picked up and whistled through the thick foliage of large trees that lined the street in front of his apartment. Although warm and muggy outside, his rooms were all air-conditioned and he kept the temperature at a steady 23 degrees celsius whenever he was in. Hugo put some smooth jazz on his old Nakamichi stereo system, poured himself a large Scotch whisky over some cubes of ice, and sat in one of his comfortable recliners. He fired up his MacBook and began working on the story he planned to file tomorrow morning.
He worked straight for an about an hour when he decided that there were blanks in his report that he needed to fill. That would, unfortunately, have to wait till mid-morning on Monday when he would get in touch with his contact at the government’s external affairs ministry for the necessary information. For now, he folded his Macintosh laptop and headed to the bar for a refill. Just as he was reaching for the 17 year old Ardmore bottle on the counter, the electricity went off in his entire apartment.
“Merde!”, Hugo cursed lightly as he remembered the landlord telling him that morning that the electrical generator of the house would be serviced on Saturday and would not be functional till late at night. Power outages were not uncommon during the summer, especially during the stormy monsoon season, so he just said a silent prayer and hoped it would be a short one this evening. In the quiet of his apartment, he realised that the rain had picked up in intensity and the sound of thunder was a lot louder that an hour ago. His housemaid had bought some candles and matches a few days ago, warning him to be prepared for exactly such an eventuality.
Not possessing any candle stands, he had stuck a long white candle into the mouth of a bottle and left it in the cabinet under the sink. Walking towards that corner of his kitchen, he hit his knee against a side table and cursed loudly as he stumbled forward. A sudden flash of brilliant lightening lit the room for a fraction of a second, followed by a loud sonorous roll of thunder. He opened the cabinet and felt around for the bottle, czech casting porno wrapping his fingers around the neck as he stood up and placed it on the counter top. Completely blind in the dark, he began opening drawers in the kitchen hoping to find the matchboxes that he knew were in one of them.
In the midst of this mayhem, he suddenly heard a faint knock on the door to his flat while he was still fumbling around for the box of matches. “Just a minute,” he said as he located the strikes and lit the candle which was inserted into a now empty bottle of Old Monk rum. The electricity had gone off about ten minutes earlier, either intentionally turned off on account of the storm or one of the incessant breakdowns that seemed to occur in this part of town.
Outside, the rain was crashing down now, large drops smashing against the broad leaves of deciduous trees in a constant staccato that surrounded the deep rumble of rolling thunder. Every so often, streaks of lightening lit up the dark streets and houses in blue-white strobe like flashes. When Anjali had got off the bus to walk back home, she realised too late that her umbrella was still lying on the seat that she had occupied on her way back from church. The downpour hadn’t been quite as bad as it was now but she had waited at the covered bus-stop, hoping that the clouds would pass. But during the monsoon season, that was a futile hope. Instead, the rain seemed to increase, and she noticed that the water on the streets was beginning to pool along the sides.
She decided it was probably better to start walking home, knowing she would be completely drenched in seconds. She held her faux leather handbag on top of her head and set out at a steady trot towards home. Five minutes later, she had entered her gated colony and snuck through the metal turnstile on the side of the road; none of the security guards were visible and she thought they had probably taken shelter in their hut. She still had another five minutes to go so she continued to scurry along the paved footpath towards Monsieur Marcel’s house.
Anjali worked for Peter Marcel, the First Counsellor and Head of the Press another stupid mistake, she thought.
She kept up a steady fast pace walk, her shoes wet and uncomfortable, her completely sodden saree and petticoat clinging to her legs and adding to the discomfort. Although she was shielded now by the overhead canopy of the tree-lined street, large drops of water still dripped off the leaves and continued to drench her hair and clothes. She was very conscious of her dress clinging to her body, revealing the swell of her breasts and the curves of her body. When another flash of lightening ripped through the sky, she heard an overly loud crack and suddenly found herself in complete darkness. All the streetlights turned off, as did most of the lights in the windows of all the surrounding houses. Thunder rolled across the heavens, the sound rumbling from east to west in a steady reverberating growl.
She was unable to see much of the road ahead in the near darkness when the headlights of a car turning in behind her lit up the street. Instinctively, she stepped to the side of the pathway and hid herself behind a large tree, waiting for the car to pass. She could hear the drone of a heavy engine approaching but it seemed to have slowed down to a gentle cruise. Holding her breath, she felt her heart thump against her chest as she stood unmoving in the dark shadows as the headlights slowly approached. Had the driver spotted her, she wondered, in the brief second that she was caught in the beams of the headlamps?
Anjali was scared; more than she had ever been before. The car was now barely five yards away from the tree she was hiding behind, water dripping from the overhead leaves on to her head and streaming down her face. Tears of fear and desperation mingled with the flow as she clutched the folds of her saree below the waistline, pulling upwards instinctively so the hem wouldn’t graze the footpath. She began to shiver, partly because of the cold wetness on her skin and partially because of the terror overtaking her. The vehicle was now directly in front and she inched to the right as it continued its slow traverse, keeping the tree between her and the heavy SUV rolling past.
As it moved along the street, she took delicate steps around the tree to conceal herself from the inhabitants of the vehicle till it rolled past. Her body was pressed hard against the rough bark of the solid wood as her breasts squeezed against the old tree. Peering from around the thick evergreen, she now saw the red tail-lights reaching the T-junction at the end and turning to the left. But the vehicle didn’t completely disappear; instead she saw the car move backwards and knew immediately that the driver was planning to come back into the street she was on. On impulse, she quickly crossed czech couples porno the road and pushed open the large wrought iron gate of the house in front and shoved it back shut from the inside. As a student of psychology, had she thought about it, she would have known that she was acting on a fight-or-flight acute stress response.
But obviously she didn’t stop to think. Instead she pushed through another inner gate, thanking her stars that the house did not have any security guards stationed at the entrance like so many of the villas and mansions in this area. Anjali knew that Monsieur Hugo, she didn’t know his surname, lived up on the second floor of this building and she quickly found the emergency stairs leading both to the basement as well as the top floors. She heard the sound of an electric generator start up somewhere, or was it the SUV that had turned around and come back in search of her? Was she being unnecessarily paranoid, she wondered briefly but didn’t stop her ascent up the steps.
On reaching the second floor, she knocked rather timidly on the large wooden door and almost immediately heard a voice from inside saying “Just a minute.” She waited in the darkness, water pouring off her clothes on to the landing as she continued to shiver. She had not considered the possibility that M. Hugo would be out and thanked God that he was home.
Hugo Herve was pissed off on many counts: first, he had not been able to complete the article he was working on; second, the power disruption; third, the house generator was not functioning today; fourth, he had bumped his knee rather viciously and painfully against the edge of a side table in his living room; and finally, he had had a lot of difficulty in getting one candle lit in the house. And now someone was at his door.
“Merde! Putain!” he cursed as he finally struck a match. Holding the empty rum bottle into which he had stuck a candle, the one he had just lit, he walked to his entrance door and unlocked it. Holding the candle slightly above his head, six feet off the ground, he pulled open the door and almost dropped the improvised lamp. Standing in front of him was clearly a woman, wearing a bluish saree and drenched to the bone. Rivulets of water poured from her disheveled hair and face and clothes. In the sharp chiaroscuro contrast of light and shade that the solitary candle flame cast on her face and neck, she looked vaguely familiar but his immediate concern was about her state.
“Good evening, Monsieur Hugo,” he heard her say very softly, “I am very sorry to disturb you like this but I need your help please.” Anjali had not had time to think of what she was going to say so she just stopped and hoped M. Hugo would take it from there.
“Of course! How can I help you?” he asked, and then realised the banality of his question. She was shivering, or quivering, and clearly in a state. He opened the door wide and ushered her in, saying “You better come in. You need to get out of those clothes and put on something dry.”
She hesitated at the door so he gently took her elbow in a grip and helped her in. Water trailed after her as she stepped on to the parquet flooring of his living room. Hugo shut the door behind the woman and said “Just stand there for a few seconds; I’ll be right back.” Rum bottle candle stand in hand, he turned hurriedly to his bathroom at the other end of the hall and pulled out two large towels from the bath linen rack, grabbed his cotton bathrobe off the hook behind the door, and rushed back to where he had left the lady standing.
Placing the candle on the tallboy next to the entrance, he handed one of the thick white towels to her. “Thank you,” she said, and unravelled the folded towel before wiping her face and draping it over her head. He noticed that she had stepped out of her shoes and pushed them aside next to the wall. “I’m so sorry, Monsieur. I’m really very very sorry for this intrusion.”
Hugo mumbled a “no problem” and shushed her, telling her that she needed to dry herself quickly. He unfolded the other towel and held it out towards her. She took it and draped it over her shoulders while still trying to soak up the water from her head with the other one. Hugo suddenly realised that he needed to get over his shock and surprise, and do something more helpful. Leaving the lamp next to her, he went across to his open kitchen and found the full packet of candles in the cabinet where the makeshift candle stand had been. With the matches, he lit another two and, dripping some wax into two saucers, he set them upright on the plates. He then took one into the guest bathroom and set it on the shelf in front of the half length mirror.
He then went back to the woman and asked her to follow him, making a gesture and offering his hand as a support. Either she didn’t see it or chose to ignore it but Anjali followed Hugo czech estrogenolit porno demurely without actually taking his hand. He picked up his bathrobe from the settee where he had thrown it earlier and continued on his way towards the bathroom. “Please dry yourself completely and you should wear this,” he said, handing the bathrobe to her. “I will meanwhile find you something warm to wear.”
As Anjali shut the door of the washroom, Hugo took the second candle saucer with him to his bedroom in search of something he could give the strange woman to wear. Anjali, still shivering slightly, placed the towels on the edge of the bathtub and immediately began to unwrap the six metre long saree from around her. She hung it over the bath curtain rail and undid the cord of her petticoat, pushing it down over her hips and let it pool around her ankles. She then thumbed the elastic band of her panties and pushed those down to her feet as well. Still standing on the same spot, she began to unclasp the front of her blouse and struggled to get her arms out of the wet snug tight-fitting sleeves. Then reaching behind her, she undid the hooks of her brassiere and pulled the straps off, dropping the undergarment to the floor.
Standing naked in front of the mirror above the wash basin, she ran her fingers through the knots in her long black hair, letting the dripping curtain of her tresses fall all the way down to her hips. After that, she took one of the towels and rubbed herself down vigorously, bringing some heat into her body. She began with her hair, rubbing energetically before wrapping the towel like a turban around her head so that it could soak up the water. With the other large fluffy bath linen, she wiped her body; drying her breasts and arms, her midriff and her back, her buttocks and the back of her thighs. She took a fold and towelled her thick bush of dark silken pubic hair before bending over and drying her lower limbs.
While she was thus physically engaged, her mind quietened down even as she still recalled the frightening experience not more than fifteen minutes ago when she thought the driver of the SUV had spotted her. She said a silent ‘Thank You’ to her Mother Mary for leading her out of danger and to the house of this very fine gentleman, M. Hugo. She would, of course, have to explain her behaviour more completely since he had not quizzed her at all, perhaps seeing the hapless state she had been in.
After picking her clothes off the floor, she tried to hang them up as best she could on the curtain rail and splay some along the rim of the bathtub. Then, in the flickering candlelight, she stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself. She decided to leave her hair in the towel turban. The curves and indents of her naked body were in deep shadow while the swell of her breasts and hips were bathed in the golden hue of the light. She ran her palms over her large 38-inch D-cup breasts but then stopped when she realised that her nipples were taut, either on account of the vigorous rubdown or because of the slight shill she still felt. She took the bathrobe off the hook on the door and slipped into the soft garment, cinching the belt tightly around her narrow waist. As she picked up the saucer and candle and unlocked the bathroom door, she was very conscious of her complete nakedness under the robe. Bracing herself, she stepped out.
Hugo had picked up what best he could from his wardrobe and was now sitting on his favourite recliner in the living room, hoping that the bloody electricity would come back on. He decided to make himself another drink while he waited for his guest to come out from the bathroom. Pouring himself two fingers of Ardmore, he opened his refrigerator and plucked out some ice from the tray inside, dropping them into the whisky tumbler. Taking an appreciative sip as he walked back to his chair, he heard the bathroom door unlock.
Immediately, he placed the glass on a centre table and picked up the clothes that he had brought from his bedroom. Stretching out to hand them to her, he said “I’m afraid I’m a bachelor so these are the only clothes I have.” Folded neatly one on top of the other, he offered her a large loose blue jersey emblazoned with the French Ice Hockey team colours, a t-shirt, and a pair of lounge pants.
She held the candle fairly close to herself, lighting up her face and for the first time, as he approached to hand over the clothes, he got a clear look at her face. His mind screamed, even though he was silent. “Non!” he thought, “C’est pas vrai! Impossible!” It was the woman he saw almost every day from his home office window, the one that stirred his groin and gave him a hard-on when he allowed himself to fantasise about her. He couldn’t believe his eyes, telling himself silently, “tu te fous de moi!”
Even though Hugo’s face was in relatively darkness, Anjali felt a change in his demeanour and prayed that he wasn’t upset. It struck her suddenly that he had recognised her, although she wasn’t sure how. She placed the candle on the bar counter next to her and reached out for the clothes that he was passing on. She knew she had to say something as he continued to gape at her without saying a word.
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