0 comments/ 36849 views/ 22 favorites Stalker By: devle “Do you know who the hell I am?” Preston Scott shouted flinging the sheaf of papers he held in his hand up in the air. Emmaline could only stare at the blond man-child while the papers floated to the ground. There went a whole month’s worth of writing. Sure, being a journalist was not her first choice of lifetime careers but it paid the bills. “Now Mr. Scott did you actually read the entire account?” Emmaline tried to keep her voice calm and professional when inside she wanted to run across the room and fling that sorry rich boy out on his ass with his face eating the wood of the desk she sat in front of. It wasn’t her fault that Scotty boy had been caught with his pants down fucking an 18 year old maid. Did she neglect to mention his pretty young wife of only one year had caught him at it too? Of course she didn’t. The best part of the story were the pictures. Oh yeah, her photographer had gotten up close and personal. You could practically lick the sweat off Preston’s chest while he pounded the poor girl from behind. Really it was all too funny. “This had better not see the light of day. I want the negatives.” Preston’s face was beet red with his screaming. Emmaline was saved from answering any more questions when her boss old Mr. Hamm came in. Emmaline beat a hasty retreat out the door behind the old man’s corpulent body. Safe at last, Emmaline breathed the cool night air as she headed for her car. This day had been a hopping one and she couldn’t wait to go home and relax in the tub. He couldn’t control the way his breath moved in and out of his lungs, fast and hard. She was everything he had ever wanted. Everything he had ever hoped to gain. He stood outside her tiny cottage on the outskirts of the city watching as she moved from the kitchen with a glass of juice up the stairs. He inhaled deeply, he could smell her hot, sweet… It only took a tiny twist to break through the doorknob on the back door. He followed the lingering trace of her scent allowing it to lead him to where she sat naked on the rim of her porcelain tub. Her back was to him in the dim electric light he made out the trench in her back, the full curves of her hips. She had clipped her dark hair up exposing the tender nape of her neck. He felt his mouth water. How he wanted to bite her there. Would she like it? Would she beg for more? He’d never had a woman that he could truly possess without killing. Humans were just too frail for the type of fucking that his people loved. Emmaline passed her hand under the torrent of water pulling back her hand quickly. “Ow.” She shut off the tap then rose to her feet walking toward the partially closed bathroom door. Oh shit, he thought, what if she found him here in her very home? He’d have to kill her. But at least he would fuck her first. Emmaline reached out hitting the lightswitch so that her tiny bathroom became bathed in darkness. Oh yes, he liked this much better. He could see everything the way her ass moved when she stepped over the rim of the tub, the sensual way she arched her back as she lay back in the hot water letting out a moan of satisfaction. He’d been watching her for a long time. Always trying to push his luck by getting closer and closer. There had been one night eight years ago when he had her a girl’s crying on the wind. His sensitive ears picked up the sounds and followed them straight up onto the roof of a small condominium where a window lay open on the hot summer’s night. “Please, please send someone to come for me.” The poor girl sobbed. He peeked into the window amazed to see a girl of about 14 lying in rose scented sheets crying her heart out silently. She had the typical little girl’s room with a dollhouse in one corner and lots of books squirreled away in corners. At that moment he wanted to be the one she was praying for. He watched her grow up into a woman over the years he saw her through high school and college. He waited for her to get a man, he waited to hear those desperate breathy moans that signaled passion in the night. It was a sword in his heart, a stroke that always loomed near as her years went by. But it never happened. She didn’t like anyone enough to fuck them and she gave off this don’t touch me vibe that drove him wild. Maybe, maybe she was saving herself for him. He watched her raise her arm to soap it with a rose scented bar. The water fell off her in a smooth liquid sheath, the drops glistening like diamonds. Emmaline lay back soaking away the tenseness in her muscles letting her mind drift. For the past several days she had felt like someone was watching her. It only happened at night when she was here in her home all alone. When she lay in her bed sometimes she felt as if someone was lying beside her, breathing softly. Whisper caresses fell on her cheeks just as she was falling into the web of sleep. But in the morning there was nothing amiss and she went about her day as usual. She was just too fanciful, Emmaline sighed, she had always wished that she had a special guardian angel to watch over her, to see her every move, to breathe her breath. Like she was special enough to have that. Emmaline didn’t see herself as beautiful, she’d been told often enough that she wasn’t. She was plain, plain, plain. Dark hair, dark eyes. A face to mix in the crowd. Nothing special. Emmaline lay back again letting the steam from the water kiss her face and lips. She closed her eyes. He wanted her tonight. After eight long years he figured it was time to reveal himself to her. It was time to taste the blood that coursed underneath the skin of his beloved. And if he had to kill her it would not be without a goodbye kiss. Emmaline opened her eyes sometime later sighing at the lazy way she felt, all warm and clean. She rose from the tub unplugging the drain as she reached for a towel patting herself dry lazily. She was so tired, too tired to even dress herself in pajamas and she never slept naked. Yet even so she walked over to her bed slipping between the covers actually enjoying the feel of cool smooth cotton against her bare flesh. In moments she slept. He swallowed convulsively as he pushed open her bathroom door walking through the steam filled room through a door way that led into her bedroom. She lay there warm and willing underneath the covers. It was time to end this. Time to see if she would be with him or not. Either way it had to end. His Emmaline had been seducing him for eight long years. He stepped closer to the bed looking over the edge of it down at her sleeping face. She was so beautiful with wild dark hair that was long and free, arched black brows that made her look so devilishly sinful and a mouth…her mouth was made for his kisses. The kisses of his kind. It had to stop, this wanting of her but always stopping himself, he needed her and tonight he would take what was his. Still looking at her face he stripped off his clothes tossing them heedlessly on the floor. When he stood tall, erect and proudly naked he picked up the corner of her blankets and slipped in beside her. Something felt so good. So warm and hard, yet soft. Strong arms came about her embracing her, chaining her. Emmaline surrendered in this hot embrace. Love me, take me, do whatever you want to me, she cried out in her mind. She had always wanted to be touched, held like this. This sweet, hot intimacy that she had never allowed herself before. Emmaline turned in his arms pressing her lithe body flush against his arching back her neck as if she knew what it was he wanted most. He pressed a tender kiss there not daring to breathe in her scent yet he could still feel the hunger and the lust rise up within him. He kissed lower on her collarbone then the top of her breast. She shuddered in his arms. He rolled so that she lay beneath him relishing the feel of her smooth woman’s body below his. He gently touched his lips to hers. Like Sleeping Beauty brought back to life she opened her eyes. If she screamed, she was dead and all his patience would have gone to waste. Please, he mentally pleaded, please don’t scream. Don’t make me kill you. Emmaline slid one smooth leg up the side of his body until her knee lay over his back causing him to sink deeper into the cradle of her hips. She was hot and wet there already. Her cunt begging to be filled by him. Her hands, such small hands, came up to touch his face reverently the tips of her fingers barely skimming his flesh. Such beautiful eyes. Magnetic and green pulling her down, down into this dream where her lover felt so real. Hot, muscular, nude maleness pressed to her flesh. Her cunt was wet and throbbing. If this was a dream, she thought, let me never wake. Her fingers went from his cheeks up into the loose long locks of black hair that fell over his shoulder and spilled like silk down his back. “You’re so beautiful.” She whispered to her dream man with the face of a god. She closed her eyes again when he silenced her with a kiss. The kiss started out soft and tentative but he deepened the kiss twining his fingers in her hair holding her down while he opened her mouth with his tongue urging her to meet his. When she did he groaned in pleasure. Her tongue tangled with his hot and wet then slid to his teeth where she cut her tongue on his sharp canines. She inhaled sharply but kissed him back harder. The taste of her blood exploded into his mouth like warm honey. He shivered, she tasted so good. He moved down her body kissing a trail to her breasts. Using his tongue he teased her nipples into stiff peaks until she was writhing and begging for more. It was then he took her into his mouth sucking hard at her breast then gently nipping the swollen flesh. Emmaline cried out in pleasure her fingers in his black hair holding him to her breast begging for him to drink deeply from her. He raised his head spearing her with a hard look. Would she really let him drink from her like that? To sate himself on her blood alone? He moved further down between her spread thighs where he inhaled deeply the scent of virgin cunt. Nothing had ever smelled so pure and holy before. He felt he should go down on his knees before her and beg her to be his, to let him worship her night and day, to fuck her until she knew nothing but the feel and taste of him. He kissed her cunt feeling the pink petals open for him. Her clit was swollen and red tempting him to taste it. He captured the tiny nub with his mouth and drew on it hard making Emmaline thrash about in the throes of ecstasy as her first orgasm washed over her. Even when she cried out for him to stop that she couldn’t take such sweet assault he brought her to the edge a second time. Her wetness gushed out from her tiny cunt where he bent his head to taste it as it flowed. She was sticky sweet. Hot on his tongue. He thrust his tongue up inside her making Emmaline shiver and clutch him close. “Please, please don’t stop. Don’t stop.” She was mindless now, a slave to her passion and the man above her. He was hard and hurting his cock killing him, straining in its desire to be buried deeply in her pussy. He rose up over her, the skin of his hips slick with sweat against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Now, he had to have her now. He looked into Emmaline’s eyes which were a deep black in the night. “I love you, Emmaline.” He whispered. “I love you.” She breathed. He moved hard and sure deeply piercing into her virgin’s body Emmaline cried out a sexy moan that ran over his skin like a wave of fire. He was so deep inside her, he almost believed that she could withstand his kind of love. He pulled out slowly, sensuously raking each fold of her cunt with his thick hard cock. Warning himself to go slow, to be gentle with his human love. Emmaline wrapped her legs about his hips forcing him to stay with her. As if he would leave. He pushed back inside just a touch harder and she responded by moaning and opening her legs more. She wanted him as deeply as he could go, as hard as he would give. “Touch me. Fuck me. Make me yours forever.” Her passionate whisper broke all his restraints. He pounded into her then freely as if she were one of his kind smelling the blood that came from her cunt as he rode her harder and harder. His fangs came out sharper and longer than ever before without thinking he pierced the flesh of her neck almost swooning in the honey richness that flowed from her veins into his mouth. She could be his mate. She could be his love forever. He would make what he was against her will or not. Emmaline couldn’t take the thousands of flames that licked at her everywhere she was cumming so hard that she passed out for a moment drunk on the feeling of her dream lover’s hard cock and teeth in her throat. He couldn’t stop the flood of fire that came at him when he raised his head gasping from her neck. His teeth chattered as her blood trickled down his chin. He raised his hand to his mouth to wipe away her spilt blood licking it off his fingers. Too precious to waste. He kept pounding into her feeling closer and closer to orgasm. He wanted to make her cum one last time. One last time for letting him love her as if she were his mate. For saying she loved him without knowing his name. When he felt her body tremble and shudder in her final release. He let himself cum inside her. Emmaline was shaking, surprised she was still alive after that brutal fucking, when he came down on her covering her body with his own. His ear lay over her heart listening to it pound furiously. She was alive, he’d drunk deeply from her, fucked her as mercilessly as one of his own, and she was still alive. He trailed one of his hands down her arm catching her hand spearing his fingers through hers, lifting it to his lips. “Who are you?” Emmaline whispered moving her other hand through his dark hair. “Gabriel.” “An angel, no less.” Emmaline voice was light and playful. Gabriel lifted his head up sharply piercing her with his green eyes which now flamed almost incandescent in the night. “Never that, Emmaline.” Emmaline felt something slide down her throat, thinking it was a hair she reached up absently to brush it away but her fingers came back wet. Before she could lift her hand back up Gabriel caught her hand. “You know.” Emmaline’s eyes widened in shock, fear, then horror at what she had done with him but he covered her mouth not allowing her to speak or scream. “You’re mine, Emmaline. You’re mine now and I will never let you go.” He slid up her body, smooth, hot, and hard Emmaline closed her eyes for a moment almost swooning at the sensation of pure pleasure that his touch brought even now. “I heard you when you were so young crying in your bed with your little window opened. You wanted someone to come for you, you wanted someone to save you. Here I am. I’ve been watching you for years ever since that night, I wanted you then and I want you now, Emmaline.” He looked away from her then staring into the moonlight reflected in her bedroom window. “I didn’t think you would save yourself for me for so long. I want to make you what I am, I want to love you for eternity.” He turned back to her lowering his head down removing his hand from her mouth so that his lips barely brushed hers as he whispered. “I’d even do it against your will. You’d have all eternity to love me again. All eternity to try to deny what you feel.” Gabriel kissed her then hot, passionate and demanding. Emmaline knew he could call her soul out from her body if he wanted to. Her body was on fire again. Emmaline burned inside wanting Gabriel to come inside her and love her again, she wanted his hard cock and brutal teeth piercing into her flesh. She wanted everything Gabriel could give. He’d been stalking her for years always on the fringes of her life waiting for that one moment when he could come inside and be one with her. Emmaline had nothing that held her here. No family member, no career was more important than this consuming, all-encompassing, unexpected love. Emmaline knew now that she was infinitely more special than she could have ever dreamed, she knew if she said no Gabriel, despite his claim, would let her go and stalk her no more. But she loved the feeling of being hunted, pursued by Gabriel. “I love you. Don’t ever let me go.” Gabriel lay above her silent and still as stone his lovely eyes boring into hers. Two drops fell onto Emmaline’s cheekbone she placed her hand to her cheek feeling the warmth of tears. She reached up pulling Gabriel down to her into the hollow of her neck. Giving herself to him. She closed her eyes as a deep, warm blackness settled over her knowing that when she opened her eyes again she would see her love, her mate with new nightborn eyes. Stalker Just because I write erotic stories, and some may say not very good erotic stories, I have a stalker. Yeah, I know it is hard to believe but it is true. Now, alas, (I always wanted to use that word) my real life is an erotic horror story. Now, I must live my life in erotic horror and constant fear always looking over my shoulder. "What was that? Did you hear that? I heard a noise and it sounded like breaking glass. Oh, geez, I just broke my glass in my hand. I'm tense. I'm stressed out. I need to relax." Maybe, I should hire a bodyguard. Only, where do you find a beautiful blue-eyed blonde or a green-eyed redhead or a brown-eyed, dark-haired, sultry vixen who is about 5'8 with a perfect body to guard my naked body while I shower? "Oh, bodyguard, can you hand me the soap, I, uhm, accidentally dropped it, again?" Now, I live in fear and must take care retracing my steps thinking and wondering if today, is the day, that I will receive a nasty comment? Is today the day that I will receive the hateful feedback? Is today the day that I will receive that angry e-mail? It is horrible being me, sometimes, writing my stories alone with only the sincere hope, deepest wish, and unselfish desire that some one person will read them, vote for them, and comment complimentarily on them (sniff, sniff). Yet, I persevere and continue to write...for you. (Did I lay that on too thick?) "Alas." (God, I love that word.) Now, I am at the ready. Now, I am on edge. Now, I stand my guard by my computer watching my cursor blink, blink, and blink. Is that the blink that received the nasty comment or was it the blink before that allowed the angry feedback in or was it this blink that posted the hateful e-mail? Stop! I cannot stand staring at my blinking computer screen. "Where is my gun? Did I lock the front door? Did I set the alarm? Leave one Pit Bull downstairs and the other Pit Bull standing guard by our bedroom door. Get away from the window! And whatever you do, do not look at the computer screen. It's the stalker, I just know it is." It is horrible and not very erotic to be stalked. Actually, there are two stalkers stalking me. One is a man and the other a woman. Why do I know this? I know this and will tell you, later. Read on, please. "Hmm, imagine the possibilities putting those two focused personalities together in a padded room, which, of course, I would love to do and throw away the key. Bye! Play nice. I'll be back to visit you every Christmas." Hey, there are some celebrities who do not even have one stalker and I have two stalkers. What makes me so special? Is it my eyes? I do have nice eyes. Maybe, it is my witty repartee. If only I knew what repartee is? I must have really pissed them off, huh? I wonder what it was I wrote that set them off. It would be funny if it was my Glen story. I love that little story. What if it was my Escalator Stripped My Mother Naked Story? Gee, maybe they thought it was a true story and felt bad for my naked mother-in-law. What part of Bostonfictionwriter do they not understand is fiction and not reality? I wonder if it was my cross-dresser story or my gay story, Odd Todd. Maybe, they think that I am not only a cross dresser but also a gay cross dresser. I wonder if it was my toys and masturbation story, Rhoda the Robot, My Living Doll. That was a cute and creative story, if I say so myself. Now, you have me wondering. Whatever it is, I wonder what it was. I wonder which story it was. Maybe they do not like me and stalk me because my name appears in all capital letters. Now, that was a mistake. I wasn't paying attention when I signed up and besides, even when you have the cap lock on, some web sites will not accept capital letters and automatically restore them to lowercase. I am sorry if my name in capital letters bothers you but you really must get a life. Go outside. Walk to the light. Get away from the computer. Get a girlfriend or a boyfriend, whichever is the case. Maybe, they just hate Boston. Maybe, they were banned in Boston. Maybe, they hate fiction. Maybe, they believe that Harry Potter is a true character and a true story. Wow! Maybe, they believe this is a literary board and not a pornography board. Double wow! Maybe, they think that I am a real person and not a delusion of my own creativity. I can assure you that I am not real, that I am make-believe and a figment of my imagination. So, leave me alone now and go away because I do not exist. Poof, let the stalking be over. Yet, I don't know but it is kind of cool to be singled out. It is flattering in a way to be given special stalking attention. I wonder what they look like. What does a stalker look like? Does anyone know? Do they wear raincoats and drool? Do they stalk at certain times of the day after they drive the kids to school or after work or during working hours? I mean, we all know what a terrorist looks like; they are the ones with their eyes bulging out of their heads. Yet, our government spends billions of dollars looking to find terrorists when all they need to do is the arrest the guy with the transfixed stare that has his eyes bulging out of his head. Am I right? You've all seen the photos after they have been arrested. They all have eyes bulging out of their heads like those rubber dolls that you squeeze and their eyes pop out. I wonder why stalkers would take the time from their busy life (Ha!) to stalk me. I wonder if they have a union, the Stalkers Union, local Stalker #69 or something like that. Why do they think what I write is so important that they must make that one nasty and hateful comment to point out to everyone that I made a typo or an error in syntax or grammar or spelling? "Hey, if you are so perfect, instead of writing your nasty comments, write us a story showing us all how it is done so that we can learn from you, oh, stalking master." Besides, I am a writer. I am not an editor. I am more creative than I am anal. Moreover, do you think it is easy to write so many freaking stories to remain competitive in the Survivor Contest? Do you think that I have the time to spend days and weeks wrestling with a line of dialogue? No, I have to let it fly and get on with the next story. That is how it is. I am not a machine that can spit out 330 perfect stories in a year. It is very hard to write that many stories and to make them of interest to the reader. I am doing the best that I can people. Give me a break! (So, did you feel bad for me after reading that? Did I come off as a sympathetic character? I wrote that for the benefit of the stalkers hoping that they would feel sorry for me and stop stalking me and, maybe, stalk you, instead. I wonder if it worked. Suddenly, I don't hear any heavy breathing.) Nonetheless, I am being stalked and I am afraid (not really, but I needed to write that in there so that they will post this in the Erotic Horror category and not dump it in with the Reviews and Essays like they do with so many of my other stories.) Yes, I am so afraid. The horror of being stalked for writing erotic stories is erotic, kind of, not really, well, not at all. Yet, look at my hands. I'm shaking. I can hardly type. It is so disconcerting to have someone write me with angry hate mail filled with threats and ill will towards me, my family heritage, and my mother. "Hey, don't you be writing about my mother like that. You can write anything you want about me or my Dad, okay, maybe, even my dog, but my Mom is special. Oh, and my car is off limits, too. I love my car. Ow, Sweetie, why are you hitting me? Oh, and you cannot write anything bad about my girlfriend either. She is off limits, too. Just to recap, my Mom, my car, and my girlfriend. Ow! Okay, not necessarily in that order." You wonder what you wrote to make him or her lash out at you in such a mean spirited way. You wonder what medication he or she takes and why they stopped taking it. You wonder why the inmates at the mental institution are allowed access to the Internet. "Dear President Bush. I think that you are a very smart man. Also, I think that Vice President Cheney is a very honest man. Just because you look a little like Alfred E. Newman of Mad Magazine would resemble as an adult and Vice-President Cheney looks like the devil if the devil was to take human form is no reason for you two fellows to get down on yourself. Maybe, you should start another war somewhere; only blow yourselves up this time instead of our killing our innocent, young military people." Okay, maybe the mental patient who wrote the above is not crazy after all or had a clear day of insightfulness. Still, I am being stalked. Then, as the days and weeks go by with your stalker continuing to write you hateful e-mails, he or she gets sloppy, makes some mistakes, and gives you some clues to their identity. At first, I did not know who my stalker was. I thought it was a bunch of people who just did not like my stories or did not like me, personally. Then, after a while, it was obvious that it was just one malcontented man and one very upset woman. That is so scary when someone contacts you and writes things that makes you realize that they know who you are but you do not know who they are. That is so chilling. Then, you wonder are they watching me? Do they know where I live? Are they following me? "Yeah, it's like that scary movie where the girl locks all the doors and windows and then...the killer calls her from inside the house." It is my fault. I have been careless. I have not thought about ways to protect myself. I just write. What possible harm could I do writing a story? "Once upon a time there lived a writer who wrote one too many stories. The last story that he wrote was about him as the main character, only, he did not know that he was writing about himself in his own story. He just thought that it was a great story to write. Then, one day, by reading his story, the stalker figured out where he lived, broke into his house, stole his computer, and wrote in big, black indelible magic marker, no more stories. Stop writing freaking stories!" I have been warned by some of my readership not to share so much personal information about myself, but I did not take the appropriate steps to conceal my identity. Identity? What identity. I am just a guy like so many of you out there. There is nothing special about me and no reason, absolutely, for anyone to waste their time stalking me. "Yes, it is true, I won the Olympic gold medal in Boxing but I did not give the year. Surely, that is not enough information to track me down. Yes, it is true that I saved a baby, actually twins, in a burning building twice, but lots of people save babies every day in burning buildings. They are not called heroes. They are called firefighters. Yes, it is true that I won the Indianapolis 500 but, again, I did not give the year that I won the race and surely, that was not enough information to track me down, unless, of course, they matched my name of the Olympic gold medal winner with the name of the Indy 500 winner. Darn, that was the thing that probably did it." Besides, my identity, like who wants to be Bostonfictionwriter? Some days, I don't want to be Bostonfictionwriter. I really want to be Cameron Diaz's mattress or her pillow or her shower nozzle. Fuck that. I really want to be Cameron Diaz's boyfriend. Damn, she is so sexy. If truth be told, even I say, one Bostonfictionwriter is enough, while my stalker may say that one Bostonfictionwriter is one too many. Perish the thought. I have friends, (yes, I have friends) on Literotica, okay, they are cyber friends but I consider them friends, just the same, who tell me not to write some of the things that I do. In a way, they try to censor me. That is kind of an oxymoronic applying censorship on an erotic story board. Maybe, they are concerned for my welfare. Maybe, I embarrass them for what I write. Maybe, I make them uncomfortable with what I write. I do not know. It is obvious that it is one or all of those things because oft time, many of my stories do not receive the supportive votes from the number of friends that I have on this board and off this board. "Oh, God, did you read what he wrote, now? What is wrong with him? Is he back to drinking, again? Did he take his medication today? What pissed him off, now?" Sorry, but...I cannot change who I am. I am too old to change, now. And I cannot censor what I write. If Literotica wants to do that by not posting some of the stories that I write, then, so be it; that is out of my control. And there have been some stories that they have rejected and I have withdrawn. Certainly, I hope that this is not one of them. I like this story. I don't mean anything by this story. I think that it is funny, witty, creative, and shows how modest I am (lol). We writers write what we must and write what we feel. Would you tell an artist that he or she cannot draw that? The artist paints what inspires him, just as does the writer or the singer or the dancer. We are all artists with some higher in degree than others but, nonetheless, we are all inventive, creative, imaginative, sensitive, and, I dare say, talented. All of us have written a story or two that we are particularly proud of and enjoyed writing. I know that I have several, okay; I love all of my stories and am not partial to any of them. Is he or she watching me? Does he or she know where I live? What if they try and do something? What if, like in Fatal Attraction when Glen Close put the rabbit in the pan of boiling water, he or she kills my dog? Okay, in hindsight, I wouldn't mind, so much, if my stalker looked the way Glen Close looked in Fatal Attraction. She was hot. Had I not seen Anne Archie cowering in the bathroom in those white bikini panties, I would even think that Glen Close was the sexier. Truly, though, when you think about it, in some weird way it is flattering to have a stalker. It raises your level of self-importance to that of celebrity. See, I am important enough to have a stalker. "Hi, I'm Freddie and the guy standing behind me in the bushes with the camera is my personal stalker. Hey, PS, come out and say hi. Nope, he always does that; he just runs away." I always said that I would rather have fame to fortune. I cannot imagine what it must be like for celebrities who cannot go anywhere without being recognized. Don't you feel bad for them? Is all that fame and fortune worth having no privacy and no private life? Talk about erotic horror, being a celebrity and trying to live a normal life is erotic horror. We the fans cannot get enough. "Look, there's Michael Jackson. Let's kick his ass. Look, there's Pee Wee Herman. Let's kick his ass. Look, there's Beyonce. Let's grab her ass. Look, there's Lindsay Lohan. What an ass." Only, I know who my stalker is. She is my ex-girlfriend, Elizabeth. Unfortunately, I cannot use her real name. I don't want to be sued. Actually, as I have written above, I have a couple stalkers. It is expected having written so many stories now in just seven months that I would have made some people unhappy with what I wrote. I cannot please everyone all of the time and am lucky to please some of the people some of the time. Yet, to those who have taken exception to some of the things that I have written, I apologize that you misunderstood my meaning or found the story ill conceived or insulting or whatever, who knows, and who cares. Actually, I really do not care. It is what it is. I put it out there and I stand behind what I wrote. I could not write the thing if I did not believe it. After all, those are my opinions, good, bad or indifferent like it or not. You do not have to read it. Pass it by and read something else, something that you enjoy. Now, why would you read my story if it was so awful? Oh, I see, just so that you can show everyone how smart you are by making a nasty comment. One guy has bashed me unmercifully, leaving more than 100 comments on my stories, dropping all of my scores to eliminate all of my red H's. I had 24 red H's and he was able to get them down to 3 red H's. With all the stories that I have, it must have taken him hours to do that. Then, Literotica's software restored most of them. Yet, now, he is back under a different name doing it, again. God bless his sweet heart. He is, after all, my number one fan. Just like in that movie Misery where Kathy Bates holds James Caan prisoner until he writes and rewrites the scene the way that she likes it. Only, in my case, the weird thing about this guy is, and I did not make the connection immediately, that he is in love with me. He e-mails me these long, love letters. I wish I had saved some of them they are kind of tragically funny. I thought it was two different guys but it is the same guy who writes the nasty comments on my stories and then writes me the love letters. It makes sense now that by deleting his love letters and not responding to them, he feels rebuffed, which is why he takes the Mr. Hyde route and does a reverse one eighty on my ass. Speaking about asses, I would never bend over in front of this guy. "Listen Pal, your feelings and love for me is misplaced. I am not gay. Well, okay, maybe I could be gay if you were Bill Gates and you promised to give me a billion dollars to be your bitch for a night." Certainly, I feel bad for the guy. He must be lonely. What it is that he thinks he reads in my writing is beyond me. It makes my skin crawl to think that a guy is in love with me. "Yuck!" Hey, there is nothing wrong with being gay. I have lots of gay friends and relatives. Only, I am not gay. I am not interested. I do not want to go for a long drive with you and park somewhere so that we can make out. Please find someone else, someone who is gay. Okay, so that takes care of one stalker. My other stalker is scarier. She will appear from out of nowhere and write a long winded comment to one of my stories or she will e-mail me using Literotica's feedback so that I cannot tell that it is her. Right, like I don't know that it is her writing me. "Duh!" She writes about how I am insensitive and do not know what it is to love someone, really love someone. She will ramble on writing about how I had a beautiful thing but threw it all away. Yes, Liz, it was beautiful if you enjoy being called names. I do not enjoy being called names. Names hurt when the one you love knows which names to call you that will hurt you the most. Names hurt when you make a nonsensical argument a personal attack by calling the one you supposedly love names. Then, there was the lying. She was a compulsive liar. She lied to cover her lies. I know she was seeing other men, too, men that she met on the Internet and then she would lie about that, too. Love is about trust, Lizzie. Love is never having to say you're sorry...for lying. Didn't Al Gore say that to Tipper? Or was that Ryan O'Neil who said that to Ali McGraw? I get those two couples confused. Stalker "Someone should go and see her," Cathy said, looking around the office and hoping for a volunteer. A silence greeted her as the other workers looked uncomfortably from one to another. "What's the point? They say she doesn't recognize anyone," a girl who sat in the far corner interjected. "Anyway, let's be honest, she wasn't one of us, was she?" "That's true," someone answered before looking guiltily down at her keyboard. "I saw her talking to Jenny, from accounts, last week in the corridor, maybe she was her friend?" Another girl glanced around for confirmation from the others. "I was there. She was asking for change, that's all," Cathy answered, before she, too, stared down at her desk. "We should have noticed something was wrong," Cathy eventually continued. "The way she stared at the cubicle in the corner as if someone was there, I thought it was strange. It was as if she could see someone we couldn't." "Well, she's not seeing anyone now, according to the manager. He went to see her yesterday, said she was just a vegetable now," a voice came from the far side of the room, followed by a nervous laugh. "That's fuckin' cruel," Cathy shouted back, momentarily surprised by the vehemence in her own voice. "The manager needn't act all concerned now, it was him who put all the pressure on her, just because he wanted a friend of his to get her job. We should have done something about that. We all saw it, didn't we?" "We didn't do anything because as long as he was picking on her he wasn't picking on us," a voice answered sagely. An uncomfortable silence followed before the voice continued. "It's true, isn't it. Management pick on one person to victimize and the rest of us let it happen, as long as it isn't one of us. That bastard in the office fucked with her mind and we all saw it and did nothing. We are all to blame." "Hey, it's not my fault," a girl shouted as she rose to her feet aggressively. "She should never have come here. She was a village girl coming to the big city and she couldn't cope, that's all." "Look after number one, eh Jane?" someone answered. "Too fuckin' true," the girl continued. "It's 'dog eat dog' here, we all know that." "Yeah, but did Jessica," Cathy whispered to herself as the clicks from the keyboards signalled the start of another day. * * * Icy fingers, like those of an expert pianist caressing his keys, caused a chill to run down her spine. Jessica gazed around the office, peering over the top of her monitor and feeling once again that she was losing track of her life. For the past few weeks she had felt as if she was being watched. They weren't the usual casual workplace glances, but a sustained attack which bored into her head and somehow exposed her innermost thoughts and feelings. She experienced a sensation of someone invading her memories, exploring, extracting and manipulating them so that when they were returned they were somehow different... Recollections of events that had once been solid and real began to feel vague and indistinct, as if they had happened to someone else, or had been recounted several times, the order changing and the meaning lost as they often do after many retellings. Although she had barely spoken to her fellow workers she knew all of them by sight. The only newcomer was a tall, nondescript man who had joined the firm about a month previously. She had never spoken to him, and in fact she had never seen him interact with anyone, but he was almost always there, sitting in the corner at his terminal, the top of his head just visible over his screen. She was due a break and in the few seconds it took to retrieve her handbag she noticed he had gone. She hesitated. The room housing the coffee machine was at the end of the corridor and she momentarily felt isolated from the rest of the office. Slowing her steps she debated whether to forgo her break and return to her position rather than find herself alone with him. Hearing a woman's voice, she relaxed and entered the room. Cathy was retrieving a partly filled cup from the machine. "They must make a fuckin' fortune from this," she exclaimed angrily. "It never gives you more than half a cup." She peered into the depths of the plastic container as if willing it to magically expand and then smiled ruefully. "Sorry about my language. It's just so annoying." Jessica began to wonder if that was the first time Cathy had spoken to her. She doubted it, but couldn't recall any other conversations. While she searched in her purse for change, Cathy left and she realized she was alone in the room. She glanced about nervously, suddenly noticing how, despite the bright lights, the room had taken on a sinister edge. Unable to stay there any longer she returned to the office and heard a voice raised above the clicks of the keyboards. "Hey, Jessica! We're signing a petition to get that bloody machine fixed. You want to sign it?" She walked on until she realized she was being spoken to. Yes, that was her name. Jessica...she'd almost forgotten. She turned and took the proffered clipboard, scribbling her signature under the others. She doubted it would have any effect as it had been that way for years. Had she been here for years? She struggled to remember, although she couldn't recall being anywhere else. Home to office, then back again. That had been her life and trying to recall anything else was difficult, almost impossible. She tried to recall what she did yesterday. The usual routine of being at work and then going home. And the days before that? The answer was the same. As she delved into her memories trying to find something, anything, that didn't involve work or her small apartment she felt his presence again. He was probing, searching, just as she was, for a small part of her life that was different, an almost forgotten friend or an incident, anything that could give her life meaning. Her memories had become like dreams: vague, indistinct, like looking at the world through an opaque window. Movement, light and shadows... all there but impossible to make sense of, until at last they drifted over an imagined horizon and out of reach forever. The others began shuffling about as the clock ticked towards finishing time and freedom from the office beckoned. Everyone, that is, except Jessica. She glanced across the room and saw him there once more, his head visible above the computer monitor and she hurried to be part of the exodus. By the time she reached the door and noticed his empty chair, her fear caused her to quicken her pace, desperate to be part of the crowd and the safety in numbers. Lately, she had started parking her car in the public car park rather than the one provided by her employer. The thought of having to retrieve her car alone from that dark and forbidding place made her break out into a sweat. She felt his presence again as she unlocked her ageing Ford and quickly scanned the car park, at last spotting his head above the roof of a black Volvo. Her fears had been confirmed; he was waiting for her. She dropped her keys from trembling hands and cringed at the loud jangling noise as they hit the tarmac. She was tempted to retrieve them, but to do so meant she would lose sight of him, so she left them where they were and began to back away between the rows of cars and towards the brightly lit road and the passersby. She didn't hear the car reversing, and nor did he see her until the collision. The previously empty car park was suddenly full of people, eager to offer advice or simply stare at the prone figure. She opened her eyes slowly, but the pain almost caused her to close them again quickly. She saw him. Partly hidden behind a group of ghoulish onlookers, the top of his head was just visible. The pain made it difficult to concentrate on the almost unintelligible words that bounced about inside her head. She was aware of the young doctor talking to her and trying to keep her calm. Jessica tried to focus on his lips in order to make some sense of what he was saying but her eyes were distracted. There in the background, behind a low screen, she saw the top of his head. He began to move into view just as the clear contents of a small syringe were pumped slowly into her vein. Jessica looked around. The blackness that surrounded her was almost complete, but not quite. She felt him, not vague or indistinct this time but beside her, and as she turned, the top of his head rose up from the floor until, at last, she was able took into his eyes and he took what remained of Jessica away forever. Stalker From the moment I saw Gideon in the locker room, my life was focused on becoming his lover. I hadn't been at the Mount Holly prep school for more than a week before I first laid eyes on him, although I began to hear about him from my first evening. And what I heard about him very likely set me up for this obsession of mine. Mount Holly was a post-high school, two-year prep school for athletes who had been offered college scholarships but whose grades were not yet up to par for entry into the Carolina coast universities the school fed into. I had actually started out at another of the feeder prep schools, Jackson Hall, up in southern Virginia, but I was pulled out of that after two months because of the coach-students sex scandal that threatened my promised basketball scholarship. I had never been linked to the football coach and student players involved in the scandal, but it had been that same coach who had taught me to take the cock and had made me realize which way I swung. I'd always suspected as much through my high school days, but it was Coach Vance who had taken a special interest in giving me late-night instruction on my ball handling—and in handling his balls and cock as well. Although my parents had moved me to Mount Holly in a panic, I had no intention, already having felt cock inside me, of not seeking it out here. And so it was with particular interest that I had heard on my first night in the dorm that the upperclassman and football team quarterback, Gideon Grant, was the premier cocksman of the school—that his appetites were voracious and that he could get any tail he wanted on the strength of his extraordinarily good looks and cut body, his self-assuredness, his position as top jock in an all-jock school, and his supersized equipment. The football and basketball teams were practicing the same afternoon on my first Tuesday at the school, the football squad out on the playing field, and the basketballers in the gym. Basketball practice finished first, and we'd showered and were sitting on the benches in front of the team's lockers with towels wrapped around us. I was becoming more deeply introduced to several of my teammates—all of them ogling the new guy and considering the possibilities—when the football squad entered—or more accurately burst into the locker room—and passed us in a swirl of muddy sweats en route to their own locker area on the other side of the entrance into the shower room, where clouds of steam were trailing out into the division between the two teams' changing areas. I knew in an instant which one was Gideon Grant. It was as if he walked in his own spotlight, surrounded by a swirl of sycophants, but isolated from them in a circle of untouchability. He'd stripped off his jersey upon entering the locker room, and he was all blond radiance, tall and bulky, but perfectly cut. A powerful body that demanded attention. I instantly knew I wanted him to fuck me. He stopped when he drew up beside the group I was chatting with, and the cacophony of laughter and raunchy banter that had accompanied the football team's entrance into the locker room quickly tapered off to near silence. He was surveying us, and I nearly melted on the spot. But I was sitting, straddling the wooden bench, and a couple of the other guys were standing, leaning up against their lockers. And one or two had already dropped their towels—for my benefit, I thought, so I don't think Gideon's eyes took me in at all. If they had, I'm sure my chances would have been good at catching his interest. I'd never had reason to question my ability to get a man to notice me. Coach Vance certainly hadn't wasted any time in getting me alone on a weight bench. "Charlie," Gideon called out—and even his rich baritone voice turned me on. "Can you give me a hand in the shower?" It was a question, but it didn't really come out as a question. It came out as a statement with a foregone conclusion. Charlie, who had been standing behind me and a bit to my right, a hand on his open locker door, his towel dropped to his feet, and in the process of reaching into his locker for his briefs, gave a little jerk and turned and smiled a shy "caught-in-the-headlights" smile. But he was quick enough to follow Gideon into the shower, stepping over the sweat pants and jock strap and cleats and socks Gideon was peeling off along the way—and leaving his own towel where it lay in front of his locker. I waited only a few minutes before I disengaged from chatting with my team mates and meandered purposely over to the tiled frame of the doorway into the shower and peeked in. Charlie was down on his knees in front of Gideon, who was standing under the spray jet of water and soaping himself up—and clearly enjoying the blow job Charlie was giving him. The other football players who were piling into the shower acted as if the scene was completely natural and were going about their business in a swirl around Gideon and Charlie, although their business did include lascivious looks, randy talk, and feeling each other up in an easy, familiar way as if this was how all of their practices ended—and no doubt that was how a good many of them did end. I couldn't help myself. I ran my hand up under the hem of my towel and slowly masturbated, aching for Gideon to pay me the attention he was paying the gurgling and groaning Charlie. When Gideon and Charlie came out of the shower and went into the team room rather than back to their lockers, I moved with them. And I was there, watching and coupling with them in spirit, as Gideon gently pushed Charlie onto his back on top of the metal conference table in the center of the small room, spread Charlie's legs, and slow-fucked him with one of the meatiest cocks I'd ever seen. Charlie gasped and moaned and begged for the fucking, while Gideon made love to him as slowly and languidly—and totally—as I could have hoped for in Charlie's place. It surprised me that an athletic hunk like Gideon would make love like that rather than roughly taking Charlie, and this revelation only added to my quickly developing obsession that it would be me. I watched Charlie, eye's slitted and sighing and moaning, as Gideon paid attention to his nipples while his dick slid in and out of Charlie's channel in long, slow strokes, and I noticed that I wasn't the only one taking an interest in the scene. As the other footballers left the showers, several of them entered the room, brushing past me, and formed something of a line along the wall and watched . . . and waited. At length, when Gideon had grunted and his firm butt cheek globes had jerked, signaling his climax, I learned what the others were waiting for. Gideon pulled out of Charlie's channel, gave him an affectionate pat on the hip, and turned and walked straight out of the room, past me, not seeming to be looking at me at all. But I'll have to admit that in that moment, I was not looking at Gideon walking close to me in all of his naked magnificence, because my attention was riveted to the center of the team room, where the line of naked football players was lining up behind the black fullback who was insinuating his pelvis between Charlie's spread thighs. I heard Charlie cry out and arch his back in response to the thrust of a jet-black cock inside the hole Gideon had already stretched—a line of other footballers licking their chops in anticipation of their turn—before I turned and padded back toward the football team's side of the locker room. "Hi," I said, as I moved toward the bench where Gideon was now sitting and pulling socks onto his feet. "I'm Sean. Just arrived this week. New to the basketball team." "Hello, Sean," Gideon muttered, but he didn't even look up. "I've seen you play," I said, reaching idiotically for any small talk I could muster. "I've come from Jackson Hall—you guys creamed us last year." "Yes, yes, we did," Gideon answered. "Gonna cream Jackson Hall this year too. Bunch of wimps." "Yes, I agree," I said. "I never—" "Pretty agreeable, aren't you, buddy?" Gideon said, and now he looked up at me. "And pretty anxious to get an eyeful too, aren't you?" Oh god. I'd gotten off on the wrong foot already. I'd been standing there with my tongue hanging out, watching him get serviced, and I'd left the impression I salivated over him. The fact that it was the truth was beside the point. "Gotta go . . . Sean, was it?" Gideon said, now fully dressed and ready to stride out. "Welcome to Mount Holly, Sean. Try to learn not to look too needy, though. That's got Jackson Hall written all over it." And then he was gone. As I passed the team room on my forlorn, worst-introduction-possible trudge back to my locker, I looked in and saw that Charlie now had a footballer at his head with his dick face-fucking Charlie's mouth and there was a Hispanic lineman between his legs now. And then, when one guy laid on his back on the table and Charlie was lowered on his cock face up and I saw another of the guys approaching Charlie from the front and beginning to work a second cock inside Charlie's hole, to the tune of loud moans and groans from Charlie, I couldn't watch anymore and had to turn away. But I can't say this wasn't a warning of how Gideon operated. Welcome to Mount Holly, I thought. But my next thought—and the one after that—was of Gideon Grant and his magnificent body and cock and of how I was going to go about winning him over to me. I blush to think how obsessed I became with Gideon Grant in the following weeks and the lengths I went to to try to get him to pay attention to me—and to want me as badly as I wanted him. I transferred to some of his classes; I found out where and when he studied in the library and tried always to be near him. I mapped out his schedule for moving around campus and followed him—to the point that he noticed I was there and scowled at me and tried to vary his movement schedules. But I always caught on to the changes, and, although I tried to be more discrete in following him when I saw how much it annoyed him, follow him I did. I dressed like the guys did who Gideon paid attention to. I tried to change my sport from basketball to football to be close to him, but the coaches would have none of that. I should have been flattered that the basketball coach said I was too valuable to his team, but all I could think of was all of that lost time I'd been in the gym and Gideon would be out on the practice field. I tried every angle I knew of to get close to him—to let him know not only that I was available, but that I was good, worthy of being selected. I even seduced his roommate, Jonas with the hope that Jonas would tell Gideon what I good lay I was. Jonas was among those who had gangbanged Charlie that first day I'd seen Gideon in the locker room, so I knew he was attainable. He liked to study in the park. So I started sunning myself in the park not too far from him. And then one day I volunteered to exercise Professor Taylor's dog for him, and I took the dog to the park and played Frisbee catch with him wearing nothing more than skimpy silken gym shorts. By that day, I had gotten Jonas to study me as much as his books. I worked my way over to the edge of the woods, and when I could see that Jonas was looking at me real good, I leashed the dog to a tree and turned and looked real hard at Jonas. He was up on his feet before I had pulled my gym shorts down to my knees. I then turned and walked into the forest. Jonas caught up with me in a shady glen of ferns and fucked me like he hadn't had sex in a month. And I gave him everything he wanted and treated him like he was the king of the mountain, pulling him down on top of me, giving his cock special attention as I crowned it with a condom, and rolling my pelvis up to him. Telling him what a big man he was, and pulling him into me, and working his throbbing cock with the muscles of my channel so that he fucked me with a frenzy and drained his balls in a fountain of cum. We met in the woods frequently after that, but, alas, I never got the impression that whatever he told Gideon of our couplings had any effect on Gideon's attitude toward me at all. The closest I came to having sex with Gideon by way of Jonas was the day I maneuvered Jonas to take me in their shared room. I was up on my knees, my chest flat on his bed, and Jonas behind me and between my thighs, probing me deep, when, as I hoped, Gideon came into the room. He watched us briefly and then stripped down—and my groans and moans at this point were for him rather than Jonas. But when Gideon had worked his cock hard as he watched us, instead of taking Jonas's place, he stepped up behind Jonas. And soon Jonas was writhing and groaning and grunting, and I sensed that his thrusts inside me were being driven by Gideon's cock inside Jonas. I was given no time to revel in this nearness of Gideon, because Gideon pulled Jonas off me and turned him onto the other bed, and the two of them were deep into their own world of long-practiced sex, leaving me unfinished and frustrated. When I left the room, they were still going at it, and I don't think Gideon even knew who had been there with Jonas to begin with—and worse, even if he knew, he obviously didn't care. I should have given up. I should have just stopped pursuing Gideon Grant. It was clear that if he was going to choose me, it wouldn't be because of what I was doing. But I couldn't stop. He had become an obsession for me. I thought that at least I would connect with him one Saturday night when he and a group of guys from the football squad went off campus—and off their training—at a bar in town that definitely was off limits to the college students because it was a well-known male pickup joint. I followed them, however, at a distance. And I couldn't help myself when they went into the bar. I went in too. They were settling themselves around a table near a front corner of the room, and when I entered I tried not to make it too obvious I was following them and walked straight back to the bar and ordered a beer—which, of course, I wasn't supposed to have. But Gideon had me tied up in knots and I needed something to either calm me or numb me—I'd settle for either at the moment. After receiving the beer from the bartender and taking a swig, I turned and there he was, on the stool next to me, looking at me with a half smile, and looking oh so radiant—Gideon Grant. "You've been following me," he said. "Have I?" I squeaked. "It's a small campus. Maybe—" "No, you've been stalking me. That's not nice. What do you want?" I had no shame. "You, just you. Like I've seen you take other guys," I said in a small, pitiful voice. "I don't like being stalked," he said gruffly. "If you get fucked, will you leave me alone?" "If you want me to afterward," I responded in the bravest tone I could muster. An audition was all I wanted. I just knew that after he'd fucked me once, he'd want to do it again. That was what I was counting on, what I was living for. "Come into the back room," he said. And he stood and turned and motioned to the guys who had come in with him. They all stood up. I was frightened then. I wasn't thrilled about having an audience, but if that's the way Gideon wanted to do it, that's the way we'd do it. I'd take him anyway I could get him. Things started going off the rails as soon as we'd gotten into the back room, which had a pool table in the center and a few straight chairs scattered around. I had expected Gideon to start working me as soon as we were in the room and stripped down, but he didn't. I felt the fear creep up my spine as, naked now himself—as the rest of the guys crowded in the small room were getting naked as well—Gideon turned a chair and straddled it backwards, facing me with a sneery grin on his face. "Get him ready, why don't you, Pete?" Gideon muttered in a throaty voice. "He'll want to be wide open." A beefy black lineman from the football team turned me roughly toward the pool table and pushed me down on top of it. He went on his knees behind me and his tongue went to my hole and a fist grabbed my balls in a bunch, and I didn't have to be told he'd crush them for me if I struggled. Another of the guys came up under me, crouched between the pool table and my spread legs and swallowed my cock and worked it with his teeth and tongue. All the time Gideon was sitting there, pulling on his cock, and giving me a wicked grin. I couldn't wait until Pete had opened me up with his tongue. I wanted Gideon inside me so bad. "OK, when you're ready, Pete," Gideon said in a low, menacing voice. "You can go first." Pete go first? The realization of what was going to happen now went racing through my head. A repeat of what Charlie got back there in the locker room on the first day of practice. Only Charlie had gotten Gideon first. When was Gideon going to fuck me? I didn't care what any of the others did—as long as Gideon fucked me. My obsession knew no bounds. One after the other, Gideon's football team chums fucked me on the pool table—the first couple from behind and then I was turned onto my back and a couple took me missionary style. All the time Gideon sat there, smiling that sneery smile of his and working his meat. His cock was gigantic and gorgeous. I couldn't wait to have it inside me. I had nearly worked through the roster of those present. Gideon's turn couldn't be long in coming now. It was what I had been waiting for, what I had endured this gangbang for. And then I was being lifted from the table, the team's star fullback's cock still deeply encased inside me. He was holding my pelvis to his, his wide palms on my butt cheeks. I had my fists locked behind his neck and was climbing his hips with my thighs, trying to stay in place as he rose in a standing crouch. He was spreading my cheeks with the palm of his hands, and I felt the presence of someone coming close in behind me. And I opened my mouth wide in surprise and pain and started to bellow as a second hard cock was worrying my hole, trying to enter. I went rigid. "Relax, sport," the fullback was whispering in my ear. "If you don't relax, you're gonna be split for sure." And so I relaxed—or as close to that as I could. And I looked over to where Gideon was sitting. But he was gone now. For the briefest second I assumed he was the guy behind me, the bulb of his cock now inside me, the fullback's cock holding steady, as the second one fought for entrance. But then I saw Gideon over by the door, pulling on his T-shirt over his shorts. And moving for the door. He wasn't even going to stay and watch me being stretched to the limit by two cocks. He was that contemptuous of me. I should have hated him. But I didn't; I wanted him now more than ever. But I couldn't think of that right now. All of my senses were focused on the second cock slowly moving up inside me. And the embrace of two meaty bodies, the two men now in a deep kiss over my shoulder. And then the slow pumping of the second cock started, and I was moaning and groaning and begging for mercy. The first cock started a countermotion pumping—and I was crying out. Opening to them. Feeling what I'd never felt before inside me. Exulting at taking two cocks and at the sounds of passion coming in stereo on either side of me. And crying out now for . . . the . . . fuck . . . of . . . my life. All the time knowing still that it would be so much better when Gideon was fucking me. I couldn't put my legs together for two days following my visit to the tabooed pickup bar. I had to hobble around campus to my classes, to the library, and to basketball practice, where the coach excused me from floor practice for three days with a smile that told me that he knew exactly what had happened to me and a look I knew so well that told me that he'd be sniffing around me himself for his share in the near future. Stalker He had met her on the internet. She said that she was a nineteen year old drama student. This lively young woman came to fascinate him and, of course, she had no idea of the man with whom she was dealing. From her emails he learned her ISP details and, for someone of his special talents, hacking the ISP records was easy. So now he knew her address and it was simple to use open sources to learn the basic details of the household. Her father was a senior lending manager with a major bank and her mother was a supply teacher. Julie was not a nineteen year old drama student; she was an eighteen year old A level student and she would pay for that lie when she was writhing beneath him with his manhood pinning her to the bed. His income from investments was sufficient to absolve him from the need to do a conventional job so he was free to devote his time to unwrapping the delicious mystery of young Julie. His first foray involved parking his telecom van near to the large house in a nice area of Portsmouth. The van appeared to be empty but, from his place in the back, he could watch the house. And then he saw her for the first time. She came out of the front door with her sister. Julie was slim with an elfin face and beautiful flowing black hair which gave her a slight air of the gypsy. She had her school bag slung over her shoulder and she was perfect. The school uniform was crisply pressed and the black tights seemed to emphasise the gentle curve of her thighs and her calves. Both girls were blissfully unaware of their lethal observer as they walked down the road on the way to just another day at their private school. It was not long before the mother hurried out of the house, got into the dark blue Ford Fiesta and drove off to work. The mother was slim and trim and very attractive; the man imagined unwrapping her and perhaps keeping her a bound helpless spectator of what he was going to do to young Julie. In the past he had known the delight of hearing a helpless mother begging him to take her instead of the daughter. If they imagined they had a chance of saving their child they would willingly submit to any degradation or humiliation and he knew this game could be made to last for many days before its final inevitable denouement. He waited for a while and then left his van and took the ladders from the roof. In his blue overalls he knew that no-one would give him a second glance as he climbed the telegraph pole outside Julie's home. At the top of the pole he took his time over isolating the line into the house and fitting his induction tap which he covered with grease to make it weatherproof and invisible. Every telephone handset contains a microphone but few people realise that sending the correct pulse down the line can make that microphone live even when the handset is on its cradle. So he could now monitor every telephone conversation to or from the house and he could also listen to every conversation which took place in any room where there was a telephone. His work complete for the day he drove away. The key to a successful operation is patience. One has to take time over every stage to get the measure of the prey and for many days he listened to the product of his induction bug. He heard her parents in their room discussing the girls and he also heard the muted sounds of their lovemaking. The telephone in the lounge gave him Julie's voice as she had the normal innocent conversations of a girl with her family and the slightly immature jibes between the two sisters about various boys. His monitoring also gave him the family routine so he knew that the mother had a full programme of teaching jobs for the next two weeks. This meant that the house would be empty for most of the day so he could move to Phase Two. Not wanting a strange car to be seen in the road he parked the car in the next road and walked confidently up to Julie's front door with all the appearance of belonging there. It was the work of a moment to open the lock and he was in. Of course there was an alarm but it used the telephone line and he had already neutralised that from the nearby pole. He stood silently looking around and picturing Julie in her natural habitat then he made his way upstairs to Julie's room. The room was the perfect mix of the newly formed adult and the small girl she had been. On the dressing table was the untidy mess of scent bottles and jewellery and on the bed lay the innocent stuffed cheetah cub which he knew from her emails was called Tig. For a moment he just stood there breathing in the faint fragrance of Julie then he slid open the top drawer of the bedside chest. Now he was looking at Julie's underwear which was also a mixture. His quarry possessed some very skimpy thongs and brassieres which were only a few wisps of lace as well as more substantial plain white cotton knickers. Despite laundering, the cotton showed a slight indent where the fabric had taken on the intimate shape of the labia which it covered and he ran his fingers along the creases at the gusset of some of the intimate items. He closed the drawer and set to his main task which was to plant his tiny devices in two corners of the room. They had been purchased for cash in Seattle when he had visited the USA using one of his many false passports so they were completely untraceable even if they were ever found which was unlikely. The devices were just tiny specks containing microphones, pinhole cameras and enough battery power to last many years as they used so little power to make them operate. Having now stolen Julie's privacy he looked around to ensure that he had left no trace of his visit and slipped out the back way then walked briefly to his car which had been hired using a driving licence and credit card in yet another alias. That evening he opened up his laptop and logged in to the internet where he could pick up the signals sent from Julie's bedroom. She came in dressed in her school uniform and began to peel off her clothes for his delectation and then change into jeans and a t shirt. Of course over the following days he observed her stripping for bed and on several occasions, before putting on her night shirt, she would throw herself on her back on her bed and her hand would dive between her splayed legs to deal with the urgent needs of a healthy girl. The bugs faithfully relayed her uncontrolled gasps and moans to his waiting ears. His access to Julie's computer meant that he was also reading her emails to her friends so he saw the things which her mother would surely never dream that innocent little Julie discussed. He also knew from the computer that the very worldly schoolfriend, Fran, had introduced Julie to the world of chatrooms which was where he had met her. Often the two of them would sit together and log into adult websites where they signed in as "Sexjules". Using a split screen he logged into the same site and engaged his target in erotic roleplays while also watching the two girls with the laptop on the bed and their hands between their legs as they responded to what he was doing to them. Of course watching was very satisfying but it was only the hors d'houvre although there was one event which made him delay his plans. His bugs had told him that Julie was a keen member of her swimming club and they had a gala to be held in a local school. He could not pass up the opportunity to be close to the prey and observe her so he arrived at the appointed time and paid his £2 at the door. He wore plain glass spectacles and a blonde wig and sat in the second row. Julie's lithe body had been built for swimming and he drank in the sight of her in her red swimming costume which showed off the gentle curves of her body and the enticing small bulge of her pubic mound just below the slight indent before one worked up to the faint bulge of her firm stomach. Her parents were sitting in the front row and he was close enough to overhear Julie when she ran up to them between heats. "Did you see the time I got for that heat. Winchester are closest to us and they can only catch us if they get all perfect scores in the next round." After the delight of the swimming gala he had to leave it for three weeks before the final act as it would be suspicious if the girl vanished just after the contest. Such a coincidence would focus attention on everyone at the event although, of course, he was untraceable. It was three weeks of enjoying the product of the surveillance but also of planning where and when his target was most vulnerable. He followed her routine not just electronically but also physically using a variety of vehicles and disguises so he was regularly very close, although invisible, to the prey. On one Saturday morning he was standing behind her on a crowded bus so close that he could breathe in her delicate perfume. As the bus jolted along he reached out a hand in the crush of standing passengers and gave her neat little buttock a firm squeeze. She attempted to turn around to see who had violated her but it could have been anyone and he revelled in the thought that he had so intimately molested her and there was not a thing which she could do about it. There were not many opportunities to take the prey but a professional can always find a way in. On a Thursday evening Julie helped at the Guide troop and, sitting in a parked van in the darkness, he had observed that she came out of the guide hut and walked the short distance to her home. He watched this routine from different hides on three occasions and on the fourth night he struck. His Transit van was parked beside the street in such a way that Julie had to pass between the van and a brick wall as she hurried along the pavement with her raincoat over her Guide officer's uniform. Just as she passed the side door of the van it slid open and his aerosol can enveloped her head in a cloud of anaesthetic spray. Unconsciousness was not instant but she sank to her knees feeling weak and confused as, all dressed in black complete with ski mask, he jumped out of the vehicle, scooped her up in his arms and deposited her on the metal floor of the vehicle. The whole operation took seconds and no-one saw anything. When Julie awoke she had a headache and the light hurt her eyes. After several attempts to open her eyes she found that she her coat was missing and she was still in her Guide uniform. She was lying on a narrow bed. She looked around and saw two wooden chairs and no windows; the light came from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was a very dim yellow light. Her uniform was dusty and crumpled and, as she tried to sit up, she heard a clanking sound and felt a pull on one ankle. It took her a while to grasp the horrifying fact that her ankle was chained to the metal bed frame and her black shoes were missing. She was very frightened and her mind refused to focus. After an indeterminate period she heard the sound of a key in the door and the door came open to let in a big man in black jeans and a black t shirt which showed the shape of his big powerful chest. He was like a monster coming to hurt her and she tried to move back away from him but all she could do was to hunch against the wall behind her. He stood towering over her and told her to get undressed. She could not speak but she curled up, leaving her chained leg still outstretched, and shook her head. Suddenly he was on her and he was undoing the buttons on her blue blouse. Her flailing little arms were not even an inconvenience to him and he easily stripped off the blouse then he was pulling her white bra away. Instinctively her arms went across her exposed breasts and he was dragging off her tights as she screamed as loud as she could. She felt helpless as she could do nothing to stop him unzipping her navy skirt and dragging it down off her feet so it ended up on the dusty timber floor hung around the chain which ran to the silver manacle around her left ankle. All she had on was her white cotton briefs and the man was rubbing his hands all over her defenceless body hurting her all over then one hand went down between her legs and was squeezing her where she was most tender. She was hysterical now and suddenly he stepped backwards and just stood there looking at her. Immediately she curled up into a ball near the foot of the bed weeping uncontrollably. He was laughing and talking but she didn't take in anything he said except his chilling last words as he left her and locked the door on her. He had collected her clothing from the floor except her skirt which remained looped around the chain. "I will be back soon to see if you will take your knickers down for me." She remained there on the bed terrified and weeping bitterly. Eventually she must have cried herself to sleep because the next thing she remembered was the man in black shaking her awake and shouting at her to get her knickers off. She gripped the sides of her one remaining garment with both hands and shook her head at him. He threatened her but still she held firm determined to keep herself covered as her Mum had told her. At this the man produced a knife and advanced on her but she still maintained her grip on her precious modesty. However the blade was not for her but for her underwear as he sliced away the cotton leaving her completely naked and exposed to his eyes and his hands. There was lust in his eyes as he unlocked her chain so that he could throw her skirt towards the door. Once again she curled up but her strength was no match for his and he easily forced her back onto the bed pinioning her slim body beneath his own. The traumatised victim knew what was coming but she was powerless as he unzipped himself and his tongue ranged over her face then he settled himself flat on top of her and steered his erect member to her intimate lips. The consummation of his lust was pure horror and searing pain but after the initial agony there was something else. She found to her disgust that her body was responding to him and all her sensitive nerve endings were betraying her to her violator. There was nothing she could do to suppress her orgiastic moans and gasps as her legs, of their own volition, gripped his body until finally it was over and she found herself alone. She did not know how long he kept her in that little room nor how many times he came back to torment her but she was intelligent enough to realise that he had made no effort to hide his face since the moment when she awoke as his captive. She knew that he would not leave her alive to be a witness to his crimes so her end must come very soon. Sure enough he came back and made sure to lock the door behind him. She watched him slip the key into his trouser pocket and then he sat on the bed beside her. This time he made no attempt to violate her beyond gently stroking all over her body with one hand. He was speaking quietly and she barely took in what he was saying but the gist of it was that he had no choice but to kill her and he would ensure that it was quick and painless. As he spoke his knife appeared in his hand and he fondled the weapon as he talked. She was propped up on one arm as he stood up and took a firm grip on the knife. He was talking about the feeling as the razor sharp blade sliced into soft girl flesh like butter and how he would make it so swift that death came quick and there was hardly any blood. And then he thrust down with the knife. Some instinct of self preservation made the girl move and the blade missed her throat and caught her high on the head cutting the flesh which was covered by her dark hair. He was a ruthless killer who had done this many times before so how could it happen that he missed his target? Could it be that this girl had so got under his skin that he could not make the fatal blow without that slight hesitation which gave her the chance to move? Julie hardly felt the pain although she was aware of warm blood running down her forehead. Of course the blade had not been able to penetrate her skull so it had only made a messy but superficial cut. With her attacker now off balance the girl made an adrenalin fuelled leap off the bed slipping past the man and grabbing one of the wooden chairs. He swung around to face her and raised his knife but the girl swung the chair like a club. Was it a lucky blow or was she so focussed that she deliberately swung with deadly accuracy? Whatever the answer the edge of the seat caught him across his skull and he stumbled. He was still on his feet and would have come back at her but his momentary incapacity gave her a chance to swing again and again. The second blow knocked him backwards onto the bed and, now that he was down, she swung the chair over and over again. She was beyond thinking and was acting out of pure naked emotion and instinct as she stood over him crashing down the wooden chair over and over again. Long after the man was still her energy gave out and she dropped the chair. She turned to the door which was locked and she remembered that she had seen the key go into his trouser pocket. She was icy calm as she felt into the pocket of the corpse and drew out the key. Once out of her prison she found herself in a huge derelict warehouse. She was totally nude and it hurt to walk but she had to escape from there. Julie has no memory of actually finding her way out of the warehouse or of blundering into the man on the road who called the ambulance but she was taken to Portsmouth General Hospital where she was reunited with her family. Healing is a very long process and is nowhere near complete. Probably some scars will remain with her forever. She can often be found as you see her now in the back garden with Gemma. At these times nothing is said between the two sisters but they do not seem to need words; they communicate just by being together and sharing the silence as they hug each other. Julie's neat little figure is rarely seen as she likes to wear big floppy jumpers which conceal her shape. When Julie was initially found naked in the road no-one knew where she had come from so it was some time before the police entered the warehouse. Julie had been convinced that she had killed the man but he must have been merely unconscious because he was gone when the police entered the room which had been her prison. He would have had ample time to regain consciousness and escape, probably in a vehicle which he had parked somewhere in the warehouse. The man did leave behind him a lot of his blood as a result of Julie's attack with the chair and when that blood was DNA tested it linked him to twelve unsolved crimes. His victims were aged between eighteen and twenty five. No identifying papers were found and the DNA could not be matched to any individual on the national database. Julie's computer had been examined as soon as she was taken but his emails proved untraceable. All of this means that the police have no idea of the identity of Julie's attacker. It is impossible to guess the extent of the injuries which he would have sustained as a result of his last struggle with Julie but it seems that, in some condition, he is still out there somewhere. Stalker and the Stalked At a downtown department store, I am at the fragrance counter. Needing to replace my cologne, I wind up selecting my old favorite scent, Polo. Glancing up from time to time, I see a woman across the counter in the womens' section, sampling some fragrances, as well. She is tall with lustrous dark hair falling to her shoulders in soft waves. She wears a no-nonsense, fairly severely cut black dress—not a sexy piece, in itself. But she wears it for a purpose—her sensuality rises above it. She appears to be a few years younger than me, is not classically beautiful, but still very attractive and extremely sexy. She wears dark sunglasses, which enhances the mystery surrounding her. During my time at the fragrance counter, we exchange glances. She doesn't smile, but whenever I raise my glance in her direction, she appears to be studying me. I am intrigued by this scenario and by her look. As I conclude my purchase, I find that she is staring at me, veiled behind her sunglasses. We hold our glance for quite a while, not smiling, and then she abruptly turns and walks away from the fragrance counter and back into the cosmetics section. I decide to follow her and keep my distance a bit. She walks over to the lipsticks and looks through the various shades. I settle back around 40 yards away and fumble with my phone in order to not look too suspicious. She samples a few of the lipsticks on the back of her hand and is facing me, now. Behind her sunglasses, I cannot tell if she is staring in the mirror in front of her or at me to the side of it. Then she takes her sunglasses off and stares right at me. With no expression, she then takes one of the lipstick tubes and applies it to her lips. I absolutely believe she is doing this for me—to generate some stirring within me. She is certainly hitting the sweet spot with me. The lipstick tube pressing against her moist lips is an intoxicatingly sexual vision. Continuing to watch her, I awkwardly shift my stance and posture—I am not able to remain calm throughout this. She is affecting me. I glance back at her and she purses her lips in a virtual kiss, making sure she has full coverage with the warm red lipstick that she's selected. After making her purchase, she puts her sunglasses back on, pauses a second to glance in my direction, then turns, and walks out through the revolving doors and onto the street. Her expressionless and mysterious persona has intrigued me to the point that I feel I cannot resist following her to see where she goes next. I settle in walking a half block behind her. She is walking deliberately, not turning around. I feel that she must know she has me "on the hook". She is a ways ahead of me, but her fragrance is heavy behind her. Is that pachoulli or some other earthy scent? In any case, I am enveloped in her sexy mystery and love where I am now. She pauses at the next corner and lights a cigarette. She glances back my way and then turns down the cross street and out of my view for a few moments. I hurry my pace a bit as I come to the end of this block, hoping that when I turn the corner, she will still be in sight. My heart jumps as I turn the corner and see her half way up the block ahead. I can smell her scent trail and I continue to pursue her. I then see her take a piece of paper out of her purse, lean against the side of a building, and write something down. She then walks to the entrance to an apartment block and walks into the building. Once again, I hurry my pace, but lose her, as she's disappeared into the building and the door has locked behind her. Then I notice a scrap of paper on the pavement of the entrance porch. It is an advertisement, but has the words, "PLEASE WATCH ME" scribbled on it. It appears to have been written in red lipstick. Putting the paper up to my face, I can smell her on the note—it smells like her earthy scent. Dejectedly, I walk down the steps away from her building. I decide to just lean against a tree in front of the entrance and watch for any other signs of her. Several minutes go by and I, again, fiddle with my phone to calm my nerves. Lights turn on in several apartment windows. I scan them to see if she might be visible in one of them. After a few more minutes, the blinds in a lower level apartment draw open and there she is. I do not believe that she sees me outside at street level, as she turns away from the blinds quickly. From my perch against the tree, I am actually looking down into her apartment window. My view is of her living room and her white leather sofa. I feel amazingly creepy and lecherous standing here, spying on this woman. Her note clearly asked for this, however. I will ablige as long as I feel there is nothing going on that is improper or threatening. With that in mind, I take a quick scan of my surroundings, looking for anyone else that might be around with bad intentions. I see her emerge from an inner room to her living room. Standing, she reaches back and finds the zipper that unzips the back of her black dress. Slipping her arms out of the dress, she is wearing a leopard print bra. My insides stir a bit (I have always had a thing for sexy women wearing animal print anything!) and then churn as her dress falls to the floor and I see her matching panties. I unconsciously look around me to see if anyone else is around, but find that I am alone with this woman. She is giving me an immense sexual spark. I am not even sure that she is aware that I am outside. Her body is wonderful. She is long and lithe. Her legs are slender in her black thigh high hose. She sits down on the sofa and peels off her thigh highs, slowly. She must know that I am there. This is a deliberate, slow, methodical grind and I am definitely the target of this. Her lovely black hair, leopard skin underclothes, and black hose are stunning against the smooth white leather of the sofa. She then leans back, spreads her legs open and applies her hands to herself, smoothly stroking her panties and rubbing her sweet sex underneath. Her expression then begins to change. She has been expressionless throughout the time that I have seen her, but now she is changing. Her face contorts a bit as she shows the mounting pleasure that is beginning to build within herself. I find that I absolutely love watching her and I, again, quickly look around me in a guilty way, hoping that I am the only person in the world observing this beautiful woman. She then takes her hand and places her fingers in her mouth, tasting and moistening them. Then she slides her hand down inside her panties and she curls her fingers into herself. She works her fingers inside of herself and I can see her face. She is moaning and sighing softly to herself. Her fingering motions quicken and become more urgent and her face contortions show it all. Her off hand grips hard the sofa leather and her body begins to writhe and grind. Her face twists and then releases in a cleansing exhalation. I am feeling this myself. This woman is driving me to an amazing state and I am not even inside the same building with her! She then gathers herself, stands up, looks out of the window at me, walks to the front door, opens it and leaves it cracked open just a portion of an inch. She then walks out of the room. After a while, she returns to the door, opens it, and finds a note on the floor in front of her door. "XX East Shoreline Apt XX" was all it said. She walked to the front window, but I had left my post. I'd left her alone with her erotic thoughts. Stalker and the Stalked Ep. 02 One of the joys of my life in the city is being able to walk to my office from my apartment building. One day in returning home from work, in my mailbox I found stuffed into the small space, along with the daily mail, a pair of women's panties. I looked at them in astonishment and found that they had, "DAVID!" written on them in what looked to be red lipstick. I immediately thought it had to be the same woman that I stalked a few days ago. How did she know or guess my name? My name is not shown on the intercom or mailbox. The panties were a leopard print skimpy little smooth satin and shiny. They were top end lingerie and they were fragrant! At once they smelled beautiful—laced with her sensual perfume. Holding them up to my face I could then smell her. The crotch of the undergarment smelled earthy and ripe. It smelled strongly of her. It smelled like her sex. I became amazingly aroused with an enormous erection, just standing in front of my apartment mailbox thinking of her. I couldn't wait to get to my apartment and "take care of myself"—she had made me so horny instantly. What was her motive, though? Why hadn't she just stopped me and struck up a conversation the other day (why hadn't I?). Why didn't she come on to me then? Was it her intent to lure me into something? If so, she was certainly doing it! Walking up to my apartment, I found a scrap of paper lying in front of my door. On it was written, "ARE YOU A GREYHOUND?". She (or whomever) had been inside the building and found my apartment. Of this I had absolutely been "put on notice" and my mind and heart began racing. What was the "greyhound" message supposed to mean? My mind was totally occupied with thoughts of her. I took her panties out of my pocket and studied them some more. Could these have been the very panties in which she had stroked herself off for me—for my pleasure? My erection was at full extension at the thought of this. In my bedroom, as I took off my business suit, I sat back in my side chair and pulled my cock out of my briefs and started to stroke myself. I held her panties up to my face and smelled her—deeply taking in everything that she'd left of herself - left for me personally. I wondered what she had expected or hoped that I'd do with her earthy panties? Thinking of the way she showed off her sexuality for me, quickly bringing herself to orgasm so that I could see her sexual nature, drove me to focus on the pleasure that I was bringing myself. My hands formed a circle around the tip of my cock and I imagined pressing myself past her pussy lips and entering her. Slowly penetrating her and withdrawing, only to slowly press my way into her again - descending into the pool that was her moist pussy. Soon I found myself fucking my own hands and the fantasy couldn't have been sweeter. I imagined that I'd be stimulating her clitoris at the same time we were fucking—trying to maximize the sensations for her and drive her to a place where she'd love to be - a place where waves of pleasure would sweep over her again and again. She'd grab my neck and twist me in her clenched fingers as she came yet again—enveloping me in a gush of her inner warmth. When I finally came and shot myself off, I imagined the fulfillment we would both have had with each other as she would have cum along with me. I then imagined her stroking my hair affectionately as we both would settle back down—coming back to earth from the soaring high that we had just experienced. I guessed that this was what she expected I'd do with her panties. I was definitely keeping those in a place of prominence in my bedroom! Then I saw it. My mind put the comment on the scrap of paper into perspective. I saw the framed Icart print that I've had on the wall in my bedroom. It depicts in Art Deco style a glamorous woman (his wife, I believe) holding back a brace of greyhounds straining at their leashes. Entitled "Vitesse" (French for "speed", I believe), I've always loved it. Madame X had invariably seen this print on the wall of my bedroom and called me out as a greyhound-but how did she see the print? I looked around the bedroom and confirmed that no one could have had an angle to see it through my windows from the outside. Erotic images of her in my mind suddenly changed and the hairs on the back of my neck started to bristle from this new creepy thought.