The Loft on Morgan Street
<h1 id="title">Elliquiy Role Playing Forums</h1>
		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Livonii on 10-07-2008, 08:59:19</h2>
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				Title: <strong>The Loft on Morgan Street</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Livonii</strong> on <strong>10-07-2008, 08:59:19</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				I've just come from the unemployment office. Perhaps it's not surprising that few openings exist for older guys with&nbsp; Ph.D.s in the application of cryptography to chaos wormhole theory, and taxi driving does not really cut it for me, so I'm still out of work. I notice that the club's AC is off -- broken again, I assume.<br><br>I stroll into the weight room, clad in my trademark workout uniform of baggy sweats cut off at the knees and with a sleeveless baggy black top. Although I'm well past the four-o point, my body makes most people think I'm early thirties or even younger. Jake, one of the regulars, calls out to me. "Hey, Fark! How're they hangin' today?" I hate the nickname, but with my family name -- Farquewell -- it seems an inevitable abbreviation. I smile, and retort, "Long and heavy, Jake. Long and heavy."<br><br>Jake is buffed. Sometimes I wonder if he's done time, but it's not the sort of question I can imagine asking him. As for me, I prefer the wiry, toned look. In addition to weights, I run and swim a lot. I like to surprise people with my all-around strenghth, but without looking like Mr. Universe, either. What's that artist? Miguel Angelo? The statue of Thomas, no, David. That's the look I want, only a little tighter in the abs and a little broader in the shoulder. He's kind of wimpy looking, although the ladies seem to like the look.<br><br>I look at the bulletin board, and a small handwritten ad catches my eye. "Artist seeking male subjects to paint. Remuneration negotiable. 909-555-1343." Hmmm. An artist smart enough to use the word 'remuneration' correctly. I'm intrigued. I pull out my cell phone and dial. I say "John-boy, this is Firebrand. 909-555-1343," and hang up. One of the perks of my former profession is access to all sorts of data normally considered confidential. The fellow I just called has not heard that I lost my last job, so I expect a quick reply.<br><br>My phone rings three minutes later. "This one is for old times. Don't call again. 1445 Morgan Street, Lamontville." He hangs up, and I realize he <em>does </em>know I'm out of work. I look at a map, and find that Morgan Street is in the local artist district, about four miles away. On impulse I start running.<br><br>By the time I get to 1445 Morgan I'm soaked, sweat pouring off my head and shoulders, looking like I just took a dip in the ocean with my clothes on. To my dismay, the building is a converted warehouse with many apartments. "Maybe she has the loft," I say to myself, and press the buzzer for 501.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Loft on Morgan Street</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Seina</strong> on <strong>11-07-2008, 06:56:38</strong>
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				It was well past the normal lunch hour and before the beginnings of rush hour when the familiar intercom buzzer startled the young artist from the reverie of her zen-like mode of sketching on the oversized pad of Bristol that was the medium for her next commissioned piece as soft jazz music filled the room from her stereo system off in the center of her loft apartment.&nbsp; Linda had not recalled any appointments set for that afternoon, but it was not entirely unexpected that someone would drop by her studio for any number of reasons.&nbsp; <br><br>Finally, she stood up from her workstation and wandered across the apartment, turning down the music as she passed the stereo.&nbsp; It would be rude to have the radio blaring while she was speaking to someone through the intercom.&nbsp; There had been many times that she had gone to other people’s home where that had happened and was left with a bad impression.&nbsp; Who knows?&nbsp; Maybe this was a business contact that was passing through.<br><br>“Yes, this is Linda, how can I help you?” she asked as she pressed the intercom button that was next to the very large entry door to her apartment. <br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Loft on Morgan Street</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Livonii</strong> on <strong>11-07-2008, 07:49:54</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				As the intercom comes to life, I almost lose my nerve. <br><br>“..es, ..is is ..nda, .ow c.. I .elp you?” The speaker is scratchy and terrible and I can't really make out the words. It sounds like a woman, though. "Hi, there. I'm sorry, I can't make out what you are saying. Are you the person who put out the ad for models?"<br><br>I'm really not sure of myself here. Not only do I have no idea what being a model means, but I'm standing here talking to someone who might call the police, for all I know. And I don't exactly cut a reputable figure in these sopping sweats. <br><br>I decide to leave. This was a bad idea.<br><br>"Never mind," I say into the microphone. "I don't want to bother you. Sorry."<br><br>I feel like a jerk now, but at least I'm out of the current predicament. {Think a bit next time, Karl. Think!}&nbsp; I tell myself. Not for the first time, and I'm afraid it will not be the last. 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Loft on Morgan Street</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Seina</strong> on <strong>25-07-2008, 07:55:38</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				Damned com-system, she thought as she smacked the pain more out of frustration than anything else.&nbsp; Kinetic maintenance only works on so few things.&nbsp; As she made out the person’s choice to leave, she tried to call down to him to wait a moment before she scrambled about to find her shoes.&nbsp; She found an old pair of canvas shoes, donning them without socks before she bolted out of the door and called down the freight elevator shaft for the person to wait.<br><br>"Please don't leave!" she called down as she decided to use the open staircase next to the elevator.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Loft on Morgan Street</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Livonii</strong> on <strong>25-07-2008, 08:49:24</strong>
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				The intercom scratches something again... but I can't make it out. But as I hesitate, I hear a voice (a woman?) . I can't quite make out the words, but her tone seems slightly anxious, or perhaps just frustrated.<br><br>I decide the voice is definitely female, and begin to imagine what she looks like. Five three, long red hair - down to her ass - and a petite build. Smallish breasts, but just right for her size, and nipples to die for. Narrow waist... good hips... firm thighs... {Idiot! She's probably flabby, with stringy short hair and out of shape! Get a grip, mate!}<br><br>With the image of stringy hair in my mind, I turn away from the door and start jogging back the way I came. But I keep thinking it's a mistake not to wait, so I turn around and jog back to the scratchy intercom. I decide to give the mystery woman two more minutes... stringy hair or no.<br><br>I start a mental timer. 120... 119... 118...<br>60... 59... 58...<br>30... 29... 28...<br>10... 9... 8...
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Loft on Morgan Street</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Seina</strong> on <strong>13-08-2008, 23:23:23</strong>
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				As he came to the last five seconds of his count, the door beside the intercom suddenly swung open.&nbsp; Must to his surprise, a woman of of his ideal image stumbled out.&nbsp; Petite woman one would guess was no more than five feet or so, long hair that spilled along her shoulders and down her back that was tied back with a simple ribbon.&nbsp; She wore a large shirt that obscured the size of her chest but the small shorts hinted that she had a very slender waist.&nbsp; A pair of thin glasses sat on her nose though threatened to fall off as she tumbled out of the door.<br><br>"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she panted, her small hands propping herself up as they lay upon her knees&nbsp; &nbsp;"I had hoped that they would have fixed the wiring in the com system before the beginning of the week but it seems to have not been the case."<br><br>She finally caught her breath and stood upright finally looking up to meet his gaze with a warm smile across her lips.&nbsp; She extended her tiny hand to him to shake as she finally greeted him.&nbsp; "My name is Linda Moore, were you here about my ad for a model?"
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Loft on Morgan Street</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Livonii</strong> on <strong>14-08-2008, 08:36:50</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				7... 6... 5... <br><br>As my count comes to an end, I sigh, and begin to turn away from the door. But then I hear the door open, turn around, and about drop my jaw. {She's just as I imagined her!}&nbsp; For a moment I can't help myself, and my eyes rake her up and down, assessing... and I give her a provisional 10. Then I collect my eyes, paint a polite smile on my face {I sure hope my lustful look does not put her off}, and say, "My name is Karl Farquewell, and, well, yes, I did see your ad."<br><br>I take her hand in mine, and a jolt of electricity seems to spark directly to my groin, so it's another long second before I gather my wits enough to say, "I'm pleased to meet you, Linda." Then I realize I'm still holding her hand, so I drop it quickly, then realize I'm probably looking like an idiot teenager. I'm feeling like one, anyway.<br><br>Taking in her glasses {cute, really cute on her... does something for her eyes} and her petite hands {I wonder how they feel on... &lt;mental slap&gt;}, I decide I like the first impression. A lot.&nbsp; "I don't have any experience as a model, though. Does that matter?" My eyes drift to her hair, and I begin to imagine what it might look like unleashed. {Could it possibly reach her buttocks? } I decide it could... and then realize that I'm staring again. {Damn!} <br><br>I'm beginning to feel as if I am totally blowing my first impression with her, a sense that's heightened as I glance down at myself, realizing that I've become more than a little rank from my run. And my running outfit is not exactly gucci, either. About the only part of my clothing that speaks of couth are my ASICS Gel-Metro Sport running shoes -- which I know are pretty much state-of-the-art, and feel like it. Maybe she likes shoes.<br><br>So I stand there, alternating between imagining her naked and slapping my libido silly, wondering if I've made such a total ass of myself that she will send me packing... or if, perhaps, we have some kind of a future.
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