The Naked Woman
2
A sensation of motion while unconscious is not uncommon. The falling sensation one has in bed, for instance, the so-called “hypnagogic jerk,” occurs quite frequently as people are drifting off to sleep.
A rather rarer phenomenon, though one still recognized by experts, is the self-perception that a person’s body is performing actions without full awareness. To be exact, this odd state consists of an individual being unconscious yet cognizant at the same time that he or she is unconscious, yet moving all the while.
As strange as she found it the first time, such fugues were to become a familiar part of Natalie’s life.
Hands shaking, Natalie tried to pour herself a drink and ended up spilling practically a whole wine bottle over her kitchen table. She collapsed in a chair and cried. Finally, she took a swig from the bottle itself, pouring the red liquor down her throat until she gagged and threw most of it back up.
When she got up to go to the bathroom, to run and take a long, long shower, Natalie saw only a bleached-out and utterly ghastly version of herself in the mirror. For the countless time that morning she began crying.
It didn’t happen. Natalie’s hand had hovered over her telephone many times that morning; every time she pulled it back. It just didn’t happen, she thought again. It was only a nightmare. It was only a nightmare.
She wanted to call someone, but she didn’t.
She felt ashamed of herself, and at the same time she didn’t.
She felt raped, yet she wasn’t sure she had been.
She didn’t know how she felt; that was the problem.
The alcohol helped, a little. Natalie wiped her face. She dried herself with a towel, and she went back into the kitchen. Casually, a little too casually, she opened the utensils drawer.
The knife she had taken out and packed last night (No, that didn’t happen) was in its usual place.
Natalie closed the drawer and went to her couch.
She sat down, then remembered she had left her glass of wine in the kitchen nook. She got back up and stood there for a long time, thinking. She cried.
In due course she sat back down. She did not want to get drunk.
Along with the knife, Natalie had already ascertained that all the clothes she may have packed last night were back. The suitcase she may or may not have used was in the closet. Even the clothes she had worn yesterday were washed and put away. She didn’t remember doing any of this, anymore than she remembered returning to her apartment; but then there she was.
The only mess in her apartment was the one she herself had made, when she woke up.
For a long, timeless interval, she had been unaware she was awake. She had just curled again comfortably, stretching, warm and nude beneath her covers. I didn’t put on p.j.s? she had thought mildly.
She had felt stupid and confused and wonderful.
She almost drifted off again before recollection hit: the events of yesterday, her panicked flight, the subway, her going down upon and fucking of a total stranger.
Her reaction to all this was only natural.
Natalie had sat bolt upright in bed and screamed.
It was a long time before she was able to settle down, reassuring herself that she was back in her own apartment, back in her own bed. The initial thing she discovered was that she had control over her body again . . . assuming she had, indeed, ever lost it in the first place.
The only thing out of place, the only “proof” that what had happened last night had happened, was that she couldn’t find the picture she had drawn of the naked woman from yesterday.
It was gone.
The sketchpad was on her couch. So was the pencil she had used. But the top page had been torn out, along with a few of the pages underneath. There wasn’t even an impression of a picture left. But did I do that too? Natalie wondered.
She picked up the pad and looked at it. She stroked it as she would have a pet cat. She held it to her bosom, shivering.
Maybe I threw the picture away myself. She had looked in her waste baskets. They were clean. Or did I even draw a picture? Did I even see that naked woman outside work?
The nausea did not return. The foreboding uncertainty in Natalie’s world did. Only now it was worse.
The events of yesterday were so outlandish—her sighting of an otherwise invisible naked woman, her threatening encounter with an otherwise invisible yet hauntingly handsome man, her wild panic in her apartment, her striptease and fucking of a stranger on a subway car—so completely outlandish, that with the lack of any verifiable proof that any of it had actually happened, Natalie was unsure that any of it actually had happened.
Her body was clean. She was douched. Her mouth had been rinsed out. The evidence for all that was in her bathroom. But for the rest of it Natalie felt confused and uncertain.
It felt like a dream. It sounded like a dream. She recalled an old saying: “If it walks like a duck, sounds like a duck, floats like a duck, it’s likely enough . . . a duck.”
If she had heard from someone else the events of what had happened yesterday—if they had happened to someone else, anyone else—Natalie would have been skeptical, to say the least.
Natalie had no proof any of it had happened. And so, the morning after, she was skeptical that it had.
She reached out a hand to the telephone to call . . . who? The police? Cindy? A psychiatrist?
Her fingers hovered over the dial, then returned to her lap. Natalie closed her eyes, fell to her back on the couch, drew her legs up, and tried to think.
Option one, she said to herself: I’m going crazy.
Not an attractive thought, but there it was. So, what did that mean?
It meant that everything that had happened yesterday hadn’t really happened.
Yes, she had almost fainted on her way to work, there was verifiable evidence for that, at least; but everything else was just . . . a fantasy. That was it. That must have been it.
It meant, however, that she was hallucinating. She was therefore crazy.
On the other hand . . . . Option two, she thought. It happened. It really happened. I saw an invisible naked woman yesterday. I heard an invisible handsome man (“We will come for you.”).
It means, too, that an invisible force took control of my body on a subway and forced me to fuck some milquetoast accountant.
And that, in the final analysis, was impossible.
No one had called her, except her boss to leave a message asking whether she was okay and whether she would be in for work today. The police hadn’t knocked at her door asking why she had made a lurid public display of herself on a train. Her landlord hadn’t shown up with an eviction notice for coming back to his building all naked and fucked.
There were . . . gaps in her memory.
Assuming for a moment she hadn’t left her apartment last night, there was a good ten hours missing during which she—or someone else in her apartment who knew everything about her—had cleaned, washed her clothes, and otherwise made the place respectable.
On the other hand, if she had left her apartment in a panic, those things had still been done, either by her or by someone else. She had fainted on the subway, fainted from the sheer revulsion of what she had been forced to do, and the next morning she had woken up in her own bed with no evidence to suggest anything had happened other than her falling asleep in the nude, which she never did.
Nothing was out of place. Everything was in its place.
Except her. She was out of her mind.
In the end, Natalie could think of no reason not to go back to work.
A not inconsiderable factor in her decision was money and her job. She was a good worker, the firm liked her, but not showing up to work after a one-day unscheduled “vacation” following a weekend that she had already had off would be pushing things. She did not want to get fired.
Then, too, she had decided to call neither the police nor a psychiatrist.
No proof was, in the end, no proof. She had thought about checking herself into a hospital—she had, after all, fainted in her building’s lobby the day before, and if she was sick, say, if she had a tumor in her brain or something, then that would certainly explain her hallucinations—but, ultimately, she decided not to do that either.
Again, money was a factor, though not the only one. In truth, she was afraid the doctors might find something wrong with her.
Probably the biggest reason she left her apartment was that she was afraid to stay home. She did not want to be alone, because if what she had experienced was not a hallucination . . . .
No, she decided. It wasn’t real. None of it was real.
Her hand shook as she reached for her front door. “I didn’t see anything,” she told herself. “I did not fuck that man. I did not. I could not.”
Saying it out loud made her feel better. Not by a lot, but better. She took a deep breath. She smiled.
She felt cold—she had so all morning—but she ignored that. “I just had a bad episode in my life, that’s all. Now it’s over. Nothing will happen today. I know it.”
It is fortunate you are a woman, the handsome man had said. We will come for you.
“No you won’t,” Natalie told her door. “Because you don’t exist.”
And so, having convinced herself of that, she went off to work, and she never saw her apartment again.
Partially to make up for her unintended absence, mostly because she couldn’t stand waiting around in her apartment—she hadn’t slept well—Natalie got to her firm’s building a good half hour earlier than usual. Good workerbees like her had schedules; they showed up at the elevators at the same time every day. Natalie did not recognize anyone in the lobby when she got there, with the exception of the kindly white-haired old security guard who had helped her. She walked past when she noted his eyes were looking elsewhere. She didn’t want to get into a conversation with him. She got into the crowd standing by for the elevator, punched the call button herself even though it was already lit, and waited.
I’m okay, Natalie thought. She clutched her purse. She hadn’t stopped for coffee, so it was the only thing she was holding. Another break in her usual pattern. She was still a trifle cold, but she ignored it.
After thirty seconds, the elevator chimed. The doors slid open. Shivering, Natalie was the first inside. As she had countless times, she reached out to push the button for the seventh floor.
She frowned. Natalie found she couldn’t read the numbers.
She stared. She was so surprised she froze in place, standing with one outstretched finger above the two-column stack of elevator buttons. The advertising firm she worked for had its offices on the seventh floor of a twenty-eight story building. She had been working in that building for better than three years. She couldn’t recall the number of times she must have pushed the button for the seventh floor. Certainly she had at least once or twice every working day. That was why she was so surprised.
She couldn’t find the button for the seventh floor.
“What?” she asked no one in particular. A pit opened up in her stomach.
“Baytit al,” a man said brushing past her. He pushed a button with a weird sigil on it. It wasn’t the number seven. In truth, the strange design looked like nothing Natalie had ever seen before.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning to look at him, eyes widening further. “What did you say to me?”
“A’do slas,” the man—a typical drone in a business suit and red tie—replied. “Repon ba, salcos.”
“Glon nul grage co trot?” a woman, also clad in executive fashion, asked the fellow next to her. She too pushed a strange sigil. Natalie could tell she had asked a question only from the inflection in her voice.
“Cant’hou sorture ina pro la pun nuting, ga’us,” her companion said. “Sof tear menu ting?”
“Balhemen. Fo mast te boaks. Ab dio ju Pupsum’s pa jut Park.”
“Frostur.” Natalie did not understand a word of what they were saying.
A bunch of people got on the elevator. When they spoke, a little infrequently, because people on elevators as a rule did not carry on lengthy conversations, they did so in a language that was utterly and completely foreign to her.
“Rogart ur par peaz la no la sacy shitez? Fuen’a ven Joher’t?”
“H’u birzadi fowd Shamill cardt. Gars belt al bloy pri Gart’t sha mills all nort?”
“Mutch wes.”
She didn’t understand what they were saying. They each pressed buttons for their respective floors.
Natalie couldn’t read any of the buttons. The “1 . . 2 . . 3 . .” and so on had been replaced by ciphers that looked like little child drawings. She made a soft whimpering noise.
At the same time, though, very briefly, the oddest sense of relief came over Natalie. The thing she had been dreading all night and all morning, the confirmation of her fears at last, had at last been realized.
Then that paradoxical relief passed. Like that, she was simply, merely terrified again.
The elevator numbers—symbols, sigils, whatever—had become totally indecipherable. For some reason, too, Natalie couldn’t even tell from placement where would be her button for the seventh floor.
That is, even by starting at the bottom and working her way up from what had to be “L” for lobby (Was there a “B” for basement? Natalie wondered randomly, the same panic from before rising inside her. I don’t remember), “2” for the second floor, “3,” and so on, she couldn’t make the mental connection.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t count that high anymore. It was that the information didn’t make sense.
It didn’t connect. She knew what a seven looked like. She could count to seven by working up. But for all that she couldn’t determine the right button to push.
Panicked, her eyes fell upon a sign she must have seen a thousand times, the one that gave emergency directions for operating the elevator and calling for help. This is what it now informed her:
MANT BE SOFTEAR BLEHIGH
TRUC TTING
- Ave Bal:
- Churthn Blehigh
- Ave He:
- Hobler ma clad Fousc . . .
- Ave Me-Enfi:
- Squarto Ofta ups Balhoe Shlagccos
Natalie’s experiences over the last day or so had had their effect. She had already been on edge. She screamed like a catamount. Her cry reverberated off the confining walls of her moving cage.
The elevator was full. Nonetheless, no one paid attention to her. Natalie screamed again, even louder.
She screamed into the face of the man next to her.
He just smiled obliviously.
The elevator doors slid open. Three people got off. Natalie pushed on the people in front, but they wouldn’t get out of her way. She couldn’t get out before the doors closed.
“Shi arnebro’a lebor ca athins,” a man said. The woman next to him made a sympathetic noise.
“THIS ISN’T HAPPENING!!” Natalie screamed a third time. She tried to scramble past the crowd of business people, but for some reason she couldn’t find the strength. She was trapped.
Bad as all that was, when the faces of the elevator people started to melt, Natalie really lost it.
She pushed herself into a corner, aghast, so overcome with horror she could barely breathe. She almost fainted again. In retrospect, though, hers was the instinctual reaction anyone might have if the world around her started to dissolve.
Not literally, mind; not disappearing per se; that is, vanishing in a puff of smoke, say, like a magician’s trick. It really was the most peculiar thing. The face of the man next to her just . . . went dim. She could still see his face; she could still see him. But for all that, before Natalie’s eyes, the man’s countenance became a mask, a flat nothing: no features she could recognize, no expression that made sense, just a blank canvas, like the blank pages in her drawing pads.
“WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME!!!?? she screamed, clutching at the walls. The people ignored her.
In horror, she watched them become . . . something else. Something she couldn’t read. Something that didn’t make a lick of sense. It was as if the lights in the elevator were going out, making what was visible inside less and less discernible; yet, and here was the horrible thing, the illumination within that tiny enclosed cell remained the same.
It was the people themselves that were becoming less and less discernible, identifiable. Natalie stared down at her own hands. Thankfully, they remained her own hands: perceptible, clear, and recognizable. She could see that she herself remained a human being. Not so anybody else, though.
Nausea filled her stomach. She darted around. The people around her had eyes, noses, lips, chins, everything. But like those numbers and words she had tried to read, those facial features no longer connected. Height, weight, age, gender: these too became utterly unclear. Where a minute earlier, Natalie had climbed into the elevator with a group of perhaps seven or eight human beings, for all intents and purposes, she now found herself alone with an unknown quantity of ghosts. They were there, and they were talking, but, still, they were distant from her, a hundred miles away, a million miles away.
Mannequins. They looked like mannequins. Each a bland and identical mannequin, with no identity, no individuality. Nothing that she could put a finger on. They had nothing that she could identify with.
They were blanks, the lot of them.
The sensation she had felt on the subway—the sensation she knew then that she actually had experienced last night—that it hadn’t been a mad hallucination—that overt masculine impression of a power and outside control taking root in her soul, and filling her, fucking her!—consumed her senses.
Natalie was suddenly unable to will her legs to move. They remained stuck to the floor. It was cold against her bare feet.
She blinked.
Bare feet? Natalie blinked again. She was still capable of this independent movement, apparently.
She found that she was standing in the middle of the elevator without her shoes. She looked around beneath her. Her shoes were gone (had never been worn). So was the purse she had . . . dropped? (hadn’t had with her). And it was cold. Too cold.
Her clothes were not lying beneath her. They were gone, as if she had never worn any in the first place.
The abrupt peculiarity of her circumstance made it seem all the more like a dream.
“I’m not wearing any clothes,” Natalie said aloud, and she found that this was so. She realized it, then, for the first time that morning. She was standing naked in an elevator surrounded by mannequins spouting gibberish.
Like a person who had been hit over the head and was trying to figure out how it had happened, Natalie went over the events of that morning before coming to work. All the while she continued to scream, divided upon herself, the widening split between her body and conscious mind somehow gifting her with this talent.
She saw herself making coffee.
She saw herself tidying up her apartment.
She remembered taking a shower, drying herself, running a brush through her short dark hair.
She remembered leaving.
For the life of her, though, she couldn’t remember putting on any clothes.
She couldn’t remember picking up the purse she knew, she absolutely knew! she had dropped to her feet just a few moments earlier. She had had her purse with her this morning . . . hadn’t she?
“I don’t remember,” she said. Her calm words, framed around her near constant screaming, echoed in the otherwise muffled near silence. She was talking to herself and screaming in absolute terror at exactly the same time. And suddenly, as though a window had opened in her mind, she did remember! Again, just like that. Natalie saw herself as no one else had seen her that morning, even herself at the time.
She saw herself leaving her apartment, stark naked, tossing her keys behind her before she closed the door, holding her arm out as to pantomime the nonexistent purse she carried.
She saw herself leave her building and catch the corner bus.
She saw herself on that bus with dozens of other people, not one of whom had spared her complete and utter nakedness a second glance.
She saw herself oblivious to the cool air brushing against her naked skin, her exposed breasts, her pussy. A “little” cold, she had been. So she had thought. How clear it all was now.
The bus driver hadn’t asked to see her pass. She hadn’t thought to show it to him.
Natalie glanced down at herself. She had nothing! Her keys, her life, all proof of identity: she had thrown all of it away!
Like a switch thrown inside her head, Natalie stopped screaming. She still felt like screaming on the inside, but to all outside appearance a sudden wave of calmness would seem to have taken her. As before, on the subway, that air of supreme manliness took control. She stopped shivering, she stopped blinking, she stopped acting on her own. The elevator doors opened, the mannequins to either side of her parted, and she walked forward into a hallway, which number floor it was she could not read.
Was she even in the same building? She could not tell. Nothing connected. Nothing made sense. The dreamlike impression of her circumstances grew even more acute.
Formless walls and surroundings? Check. The feeling that she was being watched by parties unseen? Check. The lack of control and languid pacing of her own body? Check. Maybe she was dreaming?
She prayed that she was.
Natalie’s body turned somewhere, somewhen; and in the new space within which she found herself, an office in the building, maybe, she saw a man standing. Natalie’s gaze riveted onto him. Partially, it was because, like herself, he was naked. Too, he was supremely naked and handsome, tall and superbly muscled, with long dark hair that flowed in a wild mane across his broad shoulders.
Too, she could recognize that he was, in fact, a man. She saw his features and could identify with them.
They were familiar features, at that. He was like that other man she had encountered. Black hair aside, they could, in fact, have been brothers. The only thing he wore were mirrored sunglasses.
All that aside, though, he simply absorbed Natalie with the sheer manly majesty of his presence.
All that aside, his cock was huge, erect, and pointed at her. Natalie felt herself readying herself for him.
All that aside, the main reason her concentration so immediately focused on him was that she held no choice in the matter. He wanted her attention on him. With absolute certainty, Natalie knew the force that controlled her body emanated from him. Everything else in the universe was unimportant.
He was the universe, the only other solid, discernible thing amidst the dreamlike, misty environment she had found herself in. That he had put her in.
Natalie’s nipples were engorged, stiff, and sensitive. As they brushed up against the man’s broad chest, a wave of desire swept through her. His hands closed over her hips. He picked her up, and Natalie, choiceless, opened her legs for him. Her thighs moved. He kissed her and squeezed her breasts, rubbing until her nipples were little peaks even harder than before.
Natalie moaned, and she was suddenly unsure whether this sound had actually stemmed from her or was just another symptom of his total control over her body.
She felt his heat upon her. In her. His cock pushed inside her, stretching her until she was screaming with the pleasure. He pumped in and out, going deeper every time. Natalie clutched at Him. She wrapped her smooth legs about His Waist. Her heels pressed against His smooth, perfectly muscled Buttocks. She drew Him in further. When He cummed inside her, she screamed again, experiencing a level of ecstasy she had never before savored. Natalie knew she was being raped. She knew she had no control over her responses. She knew she was trapped inside her own body. And that, curiously enough, was what made the sex so fantastically good for her. She had no control. She thus felt no responsibility. What she felt, therefore, was a pleasure undiminished by any morality, any sense of restraint, any restriction she may have otherwise wanted to impose upon herself, for to feel such abandoned pleasure was to surrender utterly to the wild, lusty core of her woman’s soul, to forever after know that she was a slut, nothing but a slut, wanton and appetitious, needy for cock, wanting only to please, needing to please, for in her submission she could explore dimensions of pleasures forever denied the free! universes of pleasure that lay hidden within the exquisitely feminine depths of her being!
Natalie’s head swam with images and feelings.
Were those her thoughts, or His?
Abruptly, He pulled from her, pulled out of her, dropped her. Natalie slid down next to Him, her sweat lubricating a rapid descent. As she fell, she brushed past the Man’s still ejaculating Penis. His Cum spilled out upon her face. Her lips tasted His sour whiteness.
It stung her eyes, but she had been forbidden even to blink.
He was . . . disappointed in her. She felt it. Heard it, within her mind.
Inexplicably, she was saddened. More than that: what she felt became a crushing sorrow. She had disappointed Him! She felt her soul shrink in misery.
“You Must Be Readied,” He said to her. “You Are Not Yet Fit To Claim.” A surge of control swept through Natalie. It was like a leash held in His Mind connecting her body to His Will.
She straightened up, put her lips to His deflating Cock, and cleaned Him with her mouth, sucking and licking away the loose remnants of His use of her. He guided her, as she had no training yet (Where did that thought come from?) or experience (?). Her tongue ran up and down His Body, lathering every inch of His Member with her own saliva, and when she swallowed Him, He made her throat relax so He could insert Himself deep within her mouth. She swirled her tongue about Him, pleasuring her God.
“But You Have Potential,” He added graciously.
Natalie’s arousal grew with the compliment. She moaned around His Divine Cock, not caring about the taste, wanting only to please Him. She lost not a single drop when He jetted inside her.
When The Man was finished, finally, her need to breathe so desperate by then that she was on the verging of fainting, she still, under His direction, pulled from Him slowly, languorously, slurping away every last bit.
Then, and only then, did the bastard allow her to breathe once more. She felt his overtly masculine presence pull out of her feminine submissive mind. Pop!
Natalie collapsed, panting. She retched. Black spots appeared and disappeared before her eyes. She saw red. Her head swam.
Free of his control, she hated this raping bastard! At the same time, though, still, she loved Him!
She could relish her rape still! The conflicting emotions warred within her brain, spinning her into a maelstrom of confusion. Natalie collapsed to her hands and knees and vomited, her whole body spasming in long-delayed reaction. The world spun. Her stomach rolled.
Pain sank into overly strained muscles.
Natalie tried to get up and could not. “Oh God . . God help me!” She vomited again, helplessly.
After a few moments, when she was capable, Natalie rolled onto her side, drew her legs up to her chest, and held herself, rocking back and forth, crying. She kept her eyes closed and moaned loudly.
Natalie wasn’t sure how long she spent huddled in a corner, crying. Eventually, though, after an unknown period of time, she stood up. A wave of vertigo swept over her, but soon even that, too, passed.
Her first clear impression: she was not alone.
At first she thought it was the Man (!), but the mysterious voices she heard did not share the same strange reverberating quality. The world swam in her vision.
Natalie saw in time, after a long time spent gazing blankly around her, that she was in an office.
A row of cubicles stood to her left.
Bright fluorescents burned overhead.
Muzak played softly.
Telephones rang.
Featureless mannequins worked and gibbered next to her, worked and talked on all sides of her, handing illegible paperwork back and forth, busy, blissfully unaware of the naked, fucked female huddling so near to them. Someone at the other end of the room was vocalizing uproariously.
Was it laughter? Crying? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell!
Natalie put her hands to herself, to cover herself; but it was unnecessary. No one was looking at her.
No one was seeing her.
A part of Natalie knew—somehow, she knew—that nothing was actually happening to them. They were talking and working and passing their time as they did every morning, but they were ignoring her.
What had changed was her perception of them.
Like numbers, clothes and persons, buttons and signs, sliding doors and walls, these no longer made sense to her. Their appearances were now . . . beyond her.
Not far from Natalie was a water cooler. As she stared at it with wild eyes, a bubble of water drifted to the surface inside the plastic container on top. She blinked. “Someone help me,” she said out loud.
Everything was clear to her. She could see and hear fine. No dimness, no vagueness to anything. But she couldn’t a word of what anybody was saying, and when Natalie tried to read the big sign at the end of the office suite it meant absolutely nothing to her. Ca Puradol Churthn Blehigh, it obliquely read.
Natalie staggered to the mannequin’s desk next to her.
“Help me,” she told her, but the figure kept right on gibbering on the telephone, ignoring the cum-stained woman in her face, bare inches away. Natalie reached out to grab the figure’s hand and pull it in her direction.
If the . . . the . . . whatever it was couldn’t—wouldn’t—see her, she would make him or her look!
She would force their attention!
But before her fingers could close about the blank figure’s wrist, they stopped. Natalie’s heart immediately sped up. Oh God, not again, she thought. She desperately did not want to lose control again.
She pulled her hand back. She could still do that. She still had command over her limbs. Her fingers were trembling. Her whole body was trembling, She felt cold and frightened. And cum-stained.
Once again, she reached out for the talking mannequin. Once again, though, her hand stopped bare inches away.
Try as she might, she could not make herself—compel herself—to make physical contact. Natalie tried again with another dummy in the cubicle next door and failed. She tried to pull on the sleeve of a passing figure but could get no more than a foot from its arm before she had to stop. No matter how hard she tried, her body refused to obey her. It wasn’t at all like being controlled, like in the elevator or on the subway. That was an active thing, a masculine presence in her mind that literally eclipsed all else.
This was passive. She had full and total control over her body, except when it came to touching somebody else. She even tried to tackle someone, but Natalie drifted through the office, unnoticed.
Whenever she stood in someone’s way, he or she or it(!) walked simply around her.
Getting a bright idea, after a minute, she tried to write a message, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil. But what she wrote even she couldn’t read, and when she pushed it, nonetheless, in front of a figure at its desk, the mannequin stared blankly at it, picked it up, and crumbled it away into a wastebasket.
Natalie sobbed in pain and frustration. She suddenly screamed, “SOMEBODY HELP ME!! HELP!! HELP!!!” Since she couldn’t reach anybody, she pounded on the wall next to her. “HELP ME!!!!”
Admittedly, it felt very good to finally cut loose like that. But, ultimately, it was futile.
No one heard. No one saw. No one cared.
Natalie looked around the office for something to help her. “SOMEBODY!!” she yelled. “CAN ANYONE HEAR ME!?” Heedless of her nakedness, she stumbled outside into the hallway.
“SOMEBODY!!!”
Trembling, shamed, Natalie lurched out into the hall, eyes widening. The cold air hit her naked, fucked body. Her bare feet padded across smooth faux marble.
Outside, the world was clearly continuing on without her. Faceless mannequins walked around her, unnoticing. Papers were shuffled. Telephones were answered in words that made no sense to her.
Natalie turned back to the office window. Cum dripping from her mouth and sex, she pressed her face against the glass. She pounded on it weakly. “Help me” she whispered, but her plaintive words echoed against the cold smooth surface, and there was no one to reply.