The Stalker – Part 3
I don’t think I’ve spent many happier mornings at work. I slump unseen behind the ‘privacy screen’ at my workstation and although my computer screen flickers before me, all my eyes can see is his pulsing, trapped cock standing exposed in the morning light. Sliding down in my seat, I replay my morning’s adventure; the weight of his cock on my tongue, the touch of his pubic hair against my skin, the saltiness of his precum dancing around my saliva soaked mouth.
Somehow my hand slips between my legs. I’m sure I didn’t mean it to and I try my best to resist. I cross my ankles and squeeze my knees together but my short skirt rides up exposing my lace stocking tops and creamy thighs. With gentle caresses my beautifully manicured fingertips seduce them apart as they stroke up my sensitised skin until, at last, they find the blood swollen puffiness of my labia. They are so beautifully presented today; my triple headed razor and vanilla moisturiser leaving them soft, smooth and scented. No wonder my fingers desire them so; no wonder they want to touch, to stroke and caress every square millimetre of the engorged and sensitised flesh that quivers beneath them.
I pick up a pen, hold it against my bottom lip, feel it quivering against my teeth, fix my unseeing eyes on the VDU and try my best not to moan as my fingers find the primped and preened smoothness of my vagina. Unwillingly I allow my hips to push forward, my thighs to part and those base fingers to find the sodden, liquid entrance to my sex. There they hover; teasing me with their presence, with the faintest of touches of their perfect fingernails and soft caresses of their fleshy pads. My pussy leans into them begging attention; demanding satisfaction.
“He really did have the most beautiful cock.”
They enter me; those bad, naughty fingers push deep into my soft flesh, lubricated by the tell-tale juices of my arousal. I grab at them with my muscles, clamp my thighs shut around them, and try to restrain their wanton thrusting. My hand cups my pubis; palm pushing hard against the throbbing neediness of my clitoris; and as the ripples of pleasure resonate throughout my groin; as I feel the steady trickle of my juices flowing from my pussy to moisten my anus, dampen my arse and stain my chair, I realise that resistance is futile.
“And those tight little balls; so aromatic, so succulent, so flavoursome; how divinely they pulsed in my soft, warm mouth, how delightfully they quivered on my tongue.”
A noise escapes my gaping mouth ... was it a pant or a moan? I bite down on my hand, filling my mouth with flesh, urging it to silence. My hips are becoming insistent, thrusting forward assertively and skewering the spread petals of my sex on the thick stamen of my fingers. My clitoris, crushed beneath my palm, slides itself back and forth in a sea of wetness as my vaginal muscles contract fiercely.
“And the divine feel of his cock sliding between my thighs, seeking out my liquid core as I rode along its length, as I masturbated myself on his poor trapped shaft.”
I raise my head, my eyes scanning the office, guilt and need written in bold capitals across my face, my moist thighs squeezing tightly around my persistent hand beneath my desk. I feel my deviant digits sliding out of me leaving my pussy empty, dribbling and panting with desire. They slide up to my cum slick clitoral nub, my fingernails flicking across my sensitive flesh. I shudder at the sudden explosion of sensation; breath pulled deep into my lungs, my mouth parted and my eyes wide with expectation.
Somewhere in my mind an image builds; not an experience but a hope, a desire. My hand wrapped around his taut cock, the cable tie biting deep into his flesh, every inch of him straining desperate for release.
I can do that for him; as my fingers flick their way across my insistent clitoris, as they abrade its quivering sensitised flesh, as my stiff, upright body quivers at its workstation, the hand in my mind kneads, strokes, caresses until...
Huge globules of cum spurt forth from his trapped and straining cock splattering across my face and hair in a never ending creamy downpour, sizzling on my skin, searing my flesh, load after load coating my breasts, collecting in my hair, dribbling down my cheek, turning me into the cum covered slut I ache to be in my dreams.
And as his blessed benediction rains down on my upturned face my miserable miscreant fingers drive deep into the saturated abyss of my pussy sending me spiralling ever downward until I am consumed in the bottomless pit of my own pleasure. Miserable sinner that I am; I cum for him.
There we will have to leave me for a little while; sat at my desk, a contented smile flickering around my mouth, my petite body shaking slightly as the ripples of my orgasm warm me, my fingers firmly embedded beneath my skirt lost in the humid, sodden folds of my sex. Around me the world continues to turn; mice are clicked, phones ring, paper is shuffled, business is done and other people get on with their lives.
Clara Bow has a problem; just a little one, an inconvenience that makes every day a small trial. She has an intense fear of being locked inside a toilet cubicle, of being stranded with no way out as some dark form towers over her, forcing her to lower her panties around her ankles, to display herself naked before him, to squat with widespread legs and splash her ‘pee-pee’ against the pristine porcelain as he delights in her desecration.
She’s not claustrophobic; elevators cupboards, the cramped spaces of The Underground hold no fears but the necessary act of urinating in a confined space can almost bring her to her knees in terror.
There is a memory lurking untouched in her mind. On occasion, when she feels brave and can feel the heat of the sun on her face, she will reach out with trembling fingers to grasp it, confront it and expel this demon from her life. But as her fingers grope their way through the darkness she can feel it sliding away before her, taunting her impotence as it eludes her, leaving her nauseous and empty handed once more.
At home she luxuriates in the delight of bright lights, an open doorway and the freedom to ‘avail herself of the facilities’ as and when she pleases. Public places, however, are a trial and at work she limits her liquid intake and times her visits to ‘the little girl’s room’ to avoid the mid-morning, lunchtime and mid-afternoon rushes.
Claude Rains ruminates daily on the fact that his pension plan provided such insignificant returns. Forty years of service, man and boy, for RioPlace plc should have been enough for him to retire in comfort, should have allowed him to buy that cottage in Bideford where he could have spent his days walking the rambling lanes and footpaths of his youth.
Those youthful memories have faded and all that now remains is misty images of golden summers, of transistor radios playing The Beatles and The Stones, of miniskirts and bare legs, of Triumph motorbikes and lying besides babbling streams with Edie’s chestnut haired head resting against his chest.
Edie passed away three years ago and RioPlace had finally wobbled its way into administration and eventual closure two years earlier. “Corporate Raiders” and “Asset Stripping” had been The City buzzwords at the time ... theft was what it had been. RioPlace’s pension fund had been picked clean so that the City vultures could spend their days getting squiffy on champagne and then piss the future that Edie and he had dreamed of, that they’d worked for their entire lives, up against the stainless steel urinals of Bishopsgate’s wine bars and gastropubs.
The security job had been a financial and emotional necessity. It got him out of their empty house full of the ghosts of the past and the crushed dreams of the future. It put some money in his pocket and helped to fill some of the endless hours that no longer had any purpose. He spent his days mostly in the Security Office watching the close circuit cameras, interacting with the world by intercom and waiting for the day he could once again rest his head alongside his beloved Edie’s.
10.15 And that strange woman from Peat & Jones Accountants is making her morning visit to the toilet; punctual as ever. That’s it dearie, door open, panties down, let Uncle Claude see you tinkle. It’s not much of a show but it beats watching those damn pigeons flapping around the car park.
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I don’t know what you think of me but it can’t be good. Really I’ve only got myself to blame; we have only spent a couple of hours together and I don’t think I’ve shown you my best side. Please believe me when I tell you that I’m a nice person and this sort of behaviour is most unlike me. Yes, I may be sexually voracious, may have spent many a weekend night rubbing myself against whichever muscular body would buy me a drink and offer me the promise of so much more. Yes I have lacked judgement; happily offering myself in exchange for nights spent writhing beneath the onslaught of some cock whilst his sweat covered body pins me to the bedding and stagnant breath plays across my face.
I admit that on occasion I may have lost myself to obsession; phoned more often than I ought, fretted about his whereabouts until I simply had to find him. That I have clung to dreams when clearly I was just another warm and willing body to be taken down an alley, skewered by his resplendent cock and thrust repeatedly against the rough brickwork until my back bled and my pretty frock was ruined.
I may from time to time have been known to flirt a little; to play with my hair and finger my lips, to flutter my lashes and stroke a cheek, to wear my heels high and my skirts short, to dangle a foot and wiggle my bum, to push my breasts out and linger in the kiss; but I have always delivered on my promises and have never offered what I wasn’t prepared to share.
I know that I have failings; that I’ve not always been a good girl, but “ If you prick me do I not bleed? If you tickle me do I not laugh? If you poison me do I not die?” It is just that I have been unbearably lonely and finding love has become such a difficult quest. Must I forever be assigned second fiddle? Do I not have wants and needs, dreams and desires, hopes and aspirations? Is it not fair that I get a turn at being a conductor, a composer, an auteur? Don’t I have the right to a little attention?
Nevertheless, I feel that I should apologise for what is about to happen. Even though I loathe my job I have always been a model employee; diligent, respectful and hardworking. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve lost my head to lust, lost my heart to a pretty boy and his slender cock. I have never masturbated at my desk before and certainly never made appointments to meet young men in the ladies’ toilets during work hours. I feel embarrassed and ashamed of my behaviour, so please do try not to judge me too harshly.
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I am unused to such exciting mornings and the mirrored walls of the elevator reflect a somewhat dishevelled me. I do my best; straighten my clothing, fluff my hair and with dampened finger remove the small make-up runs beneath my eyes. I may not be perfect but I will have to do.
The third floor is deserted; it is only partially let and always has the air of waiting expectantly for the return of the 90’s commercial property boom. The toilets are to the rear of the elevators and I walk quickly to them conscious of the fact that I’m late.
He’s not here. I open the door to the washroom; peer inside to find three opened door cubicles staring back at me. Glancing upwards, I eye the red flashing light of the cctv security globe and wonder whether old Claude has managed to stay awake in his dingy office today. A devilish little grin brightens my face as I stare at the reflective ball. Slowly I allow a single finger to slide between my puffy, dribbling swollen lips before bringing them up dripping to find themselves a home in the liquid recess of my mouth; and as my busy little mouth suckles the glorious juices from my soaked digit, I keep my smiling eyes firmly fixed on the all seeing orb.
I check my watch, chew on my lip and tap my foot rapidly in time to the hammering in my chest. I raise my wrist again, watch the second hand circle the clock face, feel my nerves starting to shred, guilt spreading up to hue my face red. I’m caught uncertain as to whether to stay or go. I push the door open once more in case he has ‘magicked’ himself into the washroom and then, when I turn, there he is trotting down the corridor the bulge of his cock obvious in his trousers.
“I ...”
“Come on.”
I close my hand about his wrist and drag him unresistingly into the ladies.
“I shouldn’t be in here.”
I’m between him and the door, backing him up, herding him towards the middle cubicle.
“We’re really busy. Someone will miss me. If you could just get this thing off me then I’ll go.”
He’s sheepish, unconfident, his face crimson. Even though he’s a head taller than me it feels as if I’m looming over him and as I step forward he shuffles backwards.
“Of course I’m happy to do that for you.”
I take a small step forward, my hands running down my hips, smoothing the wrinkles in my skirt, accentuating the narrowness of my waist and the slight swell of my pubic mound.
“Do you have a razor blade or a Stanley Knife?”
The question stops his backward shuffling, allowing me to close the space between us. We’re stood at the doorway to the cubicle, our bodies inches apart, the air pregnant with intent. He shakes his head, hair flicking enticingly across his forehead, his face crumpled in concern.
“No.”
“Then we have a small problem.”
I put my hands on his chest, feel his heart pounding beneath them, and push gently as I take a dainty step forward forcing him to reciprocate with a backward movement. I raise myself onto tiptoe, lower my voice to a whisper, my mouth inches from his ear, and the skin of my cheek caressing his.
“We either slice it off or we need to make you cum and seeing as neither of us has a blade ...”
My nerveless hands find his belt.
Clara Bow, skirt hoisted at her waist, panties around her ankles, squeezes hard. Normally it’s so hard to pee but now she’s finding it impossible not to. Taking her hand she cups it over her vagina, pressing her beaded labia shut. Droplets of urine collect in her palm. She clamps her thighs together, closes her eyes and tries to find that happy sunshine place where light dappled the trees and blades of grass tickled the undersides of her feet as she ran barefoot and carefree. Escaping the here and now, she rushes back to a time when she was young and innocent; to the memory of a place before she was besmirched.
Claude Rains, startled by the new entertainment guiltily gives thanks to whichever God felt it was necessary to put cameras in this office block’s toilets, dunks a Rich Tea Finger in his coffee and settles back to watch the show.
“Show me. I need to see it.”
My voice is urgent, demanding. My hands rip at his trousers and underwear until his cock springs free and his clothing pools around his ankles. Whatever resistance he had is gone; his mouth hangs loosely open, his eyes are squeezed shut, his breathing heavy and his chest quivering beneath his clothes.
Plastic and flesh just make the most perfect combination. When I took possession of his poor neglected cock just this very morning, it was a slender delicate morsel; a mouthful to be rolled about my tongue, to be salivated over as I savoured his flavour and filled my nostrils with his musk. It was a boy’s toy eager to play in the big grown up world and hoping to make up for its lack of length and girth with youthful enthusiasm.
Now, with its beautiful plastic collar biting quite cruelly into its flesh, with its tag all properly completed with its owners name and address hanging beneath, with its smooth shiny cock head purple and swollen, with its base tender from where the cable constricts it, and with the blood of enthusiasm pumping through his veins, he has grown. What was once a titbit to get your taste buds flowing is now a feast to be bitten, chewed, masticated and sucked dry of all its sweet flavourings and I have a cum dripping orifice all eager and ready to devour every swollen inch.
I take him between my thumb and finger, stroke him gently, exploring every raised bump, throbbing vein and slight dimple. I feel him vibrating beneath my touch, spasming as the soft pads of my fingertips walk their way up and down his length. I reach beneath him with my other hand and cusp his balls, their soft hairs tickling at my palm as I gently knead him. He is so very red and swollen, poor thing; such an unfair torture to be inflicted on one so young and innocent. The horrible plastic tie bites quite cruelly into his cock and the flesh to either side of it looks quite sore. Tenderly, I stroke him there and he jerks back with a sharp intake of breath.
“Please ... be gentle.”
He looks quite helpless standing there shaking, his face lightly sheened with sweat; helpless and vulnerable. Poor boy! But I know what he needs; a guiding hand to lead him through this valley of darkness; one that will cool his fevered brow and release him from his torments. A soft hand, a gentle hand, a prettily manicured hand with soft moisturised skin just like the one I have wrapped around his cock. Yes, he will be safe in my hands.
I squeeze his cock firmly, feel him wince at the pain, and push him back the last couple of steps until his calves touch the toilet. I release my grip and he sits unbidden as I turn and shove home the bolt and then put my back to the door.
“You have the most beautiful cock. Do you know that? I’m sure you do. Look at it; see it’s perfect, just big enough to fill my wet pussy but not too big that it wouldn’t slide nicely into my arse or choke me if I swallowed it whole.”
I’ve spread my legs wide, pushing my feet to the outer edges of the cubicle, my fingers pulling at the hem of my skirt causing it to ride up and allowing me to exhibit myself for his appreciation. I want him to admire it all; my pubis, clean shaven and baby smooth that curves downwards to the beauteous mounds of my heavily swollen labia and protruding from them my soaked lips glistening with moisture, begging to be folded outwards by finger, tongue, or cock so that my gorgeous pink slit can receive the pleasure it is due. He’s staring at me greedily; his tongue playing across his lips imagining the feast to come. I step towards him, my fingers busily unbuttoning my fitted shirt eager to show him the slender delights of this body that could so easily be his.
