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In the end, the analytical side won out. She was the victim of a hoax.What else could it be? *** After a few hours of welcome distraction, Leslie was back on the road, headingdown pastoral Route 29 towards Charlottesville. It was turning dark, not thatshe minded driving at night; in many respects, it was usually more peaceful.But on this particular night, a sense of dread crept into her mind. It didn'tmatter what music she played on the junk cassette player or whether the windowswere up or down. That uneasy feeling nibbled then chewed then began devouringevery thought. It was in the middle of nowhere when she finally pulled over, maybe 30 milessouth of Warrenton, on a gloomy dirt road that might have led to a farm. Shenervously pulled the painting from the box in the trunk and brought it intothe front seat. She switched the tiny overhead light on. The interior of theGeo began to swelter and everything seemed to blur around the accursed picturelocked into her twitching hands. The. I kept a great distance, not wanting to disturb her reading as I crossed to the library doors. She continued to read, oblviously lost in whatever book she held, and I carefully eased the key into the front doors, even more carefully twisting it shut. Done. I wuickly turned my head to see if she had noticed her entrapment, and she had not. Step two was to close the curtains, which might be more tricky without calling her attention.I debated wether to pull them closed quickly, and run to her, or to try and draw them quietly. I decided on the latter, not wanting a chase. I had been waiting patiently for what seemed like forever, my cock throbbing ever painfully, and I wanted to simply have her. The curtains on the left side of the door pulled shut with ease and quietly, and I moved to the second. The right curtains squeeked slightly, and I turned my head so sharply, I felt a painful twinge as something let go of my neck. Still, she had not raised her head from the book, and I pulled it.
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