His mobile beepedagain in speedy response raising his already frantic heartbeat to evengreater heights, he was almost too terrified to read that next text,yet deep down that arousal fuelled by that mixture of emotions wasmaking him tingle wantonly between his legs.Quivering he opened the next message."Go to the front door, unlock it and stand in the hall with your backto it, text when you are waiting for me, then put your phone down onthe floor and stand with your eyes closed. Don't disobey me if youknow what's good for you."There was a roaring sound in his ears, his face burning, his insides aturmoil. He should lock all the doors and run upstairs to hide, callthe police even, or at least ignore that text. He walked on legs ofjelly into the hallway drawn as if by some controlling force, slowlyto the front door. He looked at the yale lock his pulse pounding inhis ears, not wanting to, yet somehow unable to stop himself hereached out his truly trembling hand to it. He was too scared to. I get off the peon hauler, jog down to the baggage claim to pick up my luggage, and leave the airport and make my way back home on the T. It's late afternoon now, the sun already setting in the sky, and the glass-clad buildings of downtown Boston reflect the sunset in various shades of brilliant orange and red. The Green Line train is crowded with commuters, but I barely notice the people around me as we chug over to Cambridge.When I unlock my apartment door, I suddenly feel like the loneliest person in the world. Then the two cats come streaming in from the living room to greet me, and I bend down to pet them both. Still, the apartment is empty and dark, and suddenly altogether uninviting. For a moment, I resist the urge to throw down my bags, lock the door again, and head back to the airport for a stand-by slot back to the West Coast. Then I resign myself to reality, close the door behind me, and drop on the living room couch, where I lay on my back and look at the ceiling for a.
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