The Stalker (Part 4) – Tag Teamed
I have never been comfortable with the fact that my employer keeps a confidential personnel file on me; it has always felt like a gross invasion of my privacy and the security arrangements to prevent unauthorised individuals from accessing it inadequate. Therefore, a little while back, I decided to liberate my file and relocate it to the safety of my own home. There is little of interest in it and certainly no documents of which I wasn’t aware, but I sleep much happier of a night knowing it is well hidden.
Those employed to staff personnel departments seem to me the very last people on this planet I would entrust to guard my personal secrets. I know it is a generalisation, but is it not a residing place for chattering women of a certain age who speak in faraway voices, attire themselves in loud floral print dresses, Birkenstock shoes and insist that they’re “people persons”?
The department always has that lightheaded airiness that I used to think was the special preserve of libraries; it is as if they have all overdosed on Yoga and Pilates. Maybe one day they’ll float down from the ceiling, get their cosmic energies aligned correctly and get some work done.
Needless to say, reclaiming my file was a doddle.
It was shortly after this that I began to notice my stalker and his accomplice. Now, as a child I was an avid fan of The Famous Five and, to a lesser degree, The Secret Seven. Enid Blyton had taught me at a very young age that a little bit of sneaking, a pair of prying eyes and a notebook and pencil would soon reveal many hidden secrets ... and either a band of smugglers or a German spy ring to boot. Enid knew what she’d been talking about and in less than 48 hours I had two names, their job titles and internal telephone numbers.
Satisfying as that was it really didn’t help me very much. If knowledge is power then job titles and telephone extension numbers are the equivalent of a single AA battery. I was no longer entirely in the dark but all I had was a rather dimly glowing bulb. Fortunately, I knew exactly where to find the information to light my way, and the next day two further confidential personnel files relocated themselves to the safety of my home.
Their security arrangements really are totally inadequate.
Let us take a moment to investigate those manila files, to browse through the assembled papers, to shine a light into the darkness so that we might better know what sort of people have become infatuated with my every movement.
My assailant of this morning goes by the name of Jonathon Swift. He was born in Carshalton, Surrey and was educated at Ribston Grammar School where he performed respectably both at GCSE’s and A Levels yet for some reason failed to move on to any form of higher education. A Libra who has recently turned 20, this is his first permanent job. His Application Form lists a number of temp agency positions and six months voluntary work at The Victoria and Albert Museum. He says his hobbies are reading, archaeology, rock climbing and orienteering; but I reckon at least three of those are made up.
He currently resides at 17 Rowcroft Villas, Clapham Common. Telephone number: 0208 642 3891; a number which when called is usually answered by a middle aged woman. Whether she is his landlady, his lover or his mother I was unable to ascertain. His mobile number is: 0776 843 8342; but I haven’t called that yet.
He has been employed as a Services Administrator for 14 months and earns £13,172 per annum. There are no records of any disciplinary or performance problems but his supervisor adopts a generally dissatisfied tone throughout his annual appraisal, particularly bemoaning Jonathon’s lack of motivation. His performance related pay award was, at 2%, fairly derisory.
His broodingly good looking accomplice, Robert Hooke, by contrast, is going places. He has been promoted twice in the last 18 months and now has the grand title of Assistant Maintenance Manager. His appraisals have been glowing in their praise of his work and commitment but do give him a little slap for being a mouthy smart Alec. Actually the phrase they use is “Robert should take time to reflect on his opinions fully before expressing them and understand the importance that successful political and networking skills will have on the development of his career,” ... but it means the same thing; less mouth. Nevertheless, at the last pay award his salary rose to £21,428.
He seems to have lived all his life in Wood Green. Schooled at The White Horse Comprehensive; he left with a mixed bag of GCSE results and enrolled in Practical Mechanics at Hackney College of Technology. He doesn’t seemed to have gained any qualifications and within a year of starting had quit for a job as a cycle courier.
A Virgo who is now 24, he flitted from entry level job to entry level job until landing here nearly three years ago. His mobile is 0781 440 3204 and his home number 0208 737 3104. I have his home address, but as a general rule I try to avoid going north of the river for anything other than work, clubbing or shopping and I would have to be really, really desperate to even think about going as far north as Wood Green. The only hobby he listed was Arsenal Football Club ... so at least he didn’t bother lying.
So, now that we have investigated the paper trail, why don’t we meet them in the flesh? And seeing that it has just gone 1pm, the place to find them will be the canteen.
The building doesn’t really have a canteen, though we call it that. When the offices were originally muted some far sighted person proposed assigning part of the ground floor for retail use and subsequent plans amended this to a restaurant/cafe. All around us are other mid-sized office blocks and industrial units which are often let to a plethora of small business; none of which have the staff numbers to warrant onsite catering and, with the exception of the tired run of convenience stores that line the exit routes from The Underground, the area is devoid of local services.
Thus the canteen was born; the hub of our little workday world, descended upon by all those desperate to escape the sterile environs of their office and breathe the roasted coffee bean air of freedom.
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A scruffy and bedraggled middle manager holds open the door to allow my entrance, his red-rimmed eyes sliding up and down my body. It’s been an hour or so since my little adventure in the toilets and I’ve used the time to ensure that I am once again perfectly presentable. I return his gaze, confident in my own appearance, my eyes noting the stain on his lapel, the rim of grime that edges his shirt collar and the random stalks of facial hair that his blunt razor avoided shaving that morning.
I allow our eyes to meet; glimpse the hope twinkling behind his irises and watch with glee as it withers and dies beneath the intensity of my disdain. Raising my nose, I stride away leaving him to shuffle through the open doorway and into obscurity.
The canteen throbs with humanity and my eyes skip from face to face searching for my twin lovers. They’re sat together mid-room and, as is usual, Robert is talking expansively whilst Jonathon nods along his mouth stuffed with some form of breaded goods. To my chagrin neither of them noted my entrance.
I make a bee line for them; stepping through the assorted clutter of chairs, bags and people; wriggling and shimmying, pushing myself up on to tiptoe as I slide my bottom and sheer nylon clad legs through the smaller gaps until, on reaching their table, I put one hand on my waist, set myself in a jaunty yet provocative posture and wait to be noticed.
Robert stops his narration and looks up. Jonathon, alerted by the sudden silence, glances my way then quickly ducks his head back down, rests his chin on his chest and stares at his plate.
“Hi Jonathon. Hi Robert.”
Cheery, bubbly me greeting old friends.
“Err ... Hi.”
Robert is nonplussed; he doesn’t know me, has never noticed me, knows nothing of my little tete a tete with Jonathon that morning and hasn’t been informed about his evening invitation. I fight back my irritation with Jonathon, fix my smiling, cheerful mask across my face and focus my attention on Robert.
“I thought Jonathon might have told you, Robert ...”
Both of us glance sideways to note Jonathon’s reddening face trying to disappear inside his shirt collar.
“... that he and I had a little liaison together this morning. It’s not for me to break confidences and I can see that Jonathon doesn’t want to tell you about it but ... um ... I did invite both of you to mine this evening. I thought I’d have a little soiree; just the three of us.”
I’m forcing my voice to speed up; feigning nervousness. I drop a hand to the hem of my skirt and start to fiddle revealing the lace tops of my hold ups in the process.
“I promise it will be fun and ... err ... it would make me so happy if you could come. I ... I’ve done an invitation for you both.”
I root in my bag and carry on talking with my head down.
“I’ve put my address on it and my telephone number ... oh, where are they?”
They are sat at the top of my bag exactly where I placed them 10 minutes ago and my deceitful fingers are deliberately rummaging beneath them.
“Ah, here they are.”
I produce them with a flourish and place the pair of them in front of Robert.
“Look, see, here’s my address ...
I’m using a perfectly polished fingernail to highlight the relevant details.
“... and telephone number and ... um ... Jonathon said you might have a problem ‘cause you lived somewhere up on the Picadilly Line, but ...”
Here I put a little stammer into my voice.
“...i-if you want to y-you could ... err ... stop over.”
The last two words are delivered soto voce, my eyes looking down and off to one side, my fingers dragging the hem of my skirt upwards and my feet twisting inwards; nervousness personified.
Then I’m off again in a rush.
“So, can you come?”
Robert picks up the card; studies it closely as if trying to reveal a hidden code.
“It says 8.00 for 8.30. What does that mean?”
I giggle a response.
“Oh, it’s sort of posh. It means that you are invited to arrive at 8.00 but that the entertainment will start at 8.30. So will you? ... Err ... Come, I mean.”
“What entertainment?”
“I can’t tell you that;” fake affronted tone. “It’s a surprise.”
Robert glances across for assistance but Jonathon has developed a fascination with the table top and isn’t meeting anybody’s eyes. Left to make a decision he doesn’t understand, Robert goes for evasive.
“We’ll let you know.”
“Well, okay then;” disappointment reverberating through my voice, “um ... my mobile number is on there so if you could just text me either way that’d be great.”
I make as if to leave; hoisting my bag onto my shoulder, checking my watch on my wrist and even going so far as to take a single step away before turning back, placing both hands on the table and staring directly at Jonathon. This time I get his attention.
“Oh, and Jonathon, I scooped up all your cum with my fingers and sucked them clean. Thank you, it tasted divine.”
Now I do go; wriggling, shimmying and pushing myself up on to tiptoe to slide my bottom and sheer nylon clad legs through the smaller gaps; intensely aware of the two pairs of hungry eyes that devour my every steps.
I am oblivious to them now. Though I can feel them watching me, though my ears burn as their conversation inevitably focuses on me, though my heart races and my pussy pulses at the thought of their stiff cocks filling my every orifice, though my mind clouds at the vision of me on all fours between them my upturned arse being pounded brutally by Robert’s mighty member as I slide my lips along Jonathon’s slender tool in time to every thrust.
No! I am oblivious to them. I keep my eyes fixed forward as I select a pine nut and apple pasta salad and a bottle of water with a hint of cranberry. I make only the teensiest of peeks in their direction as I turn from paying and carefully place one foot in front of the other, toe to heel, with perfect six inch gaps as my bottom wriggles seductively beneath my skirt and my humid pussy dribbles its special nectar onto my dampened thighs.
It is a few steps; fifteen or twenty perfectly spaced paces to my destination, a table for two with a single occupant who has ogled my every affected movement since I entered. I pull the spare chair out slightly, deposit my lunch, place my bag on the floor and slide myself on to the seat facing her. She reaches out to me across the table, palm upwards, and I take her fingers in mine and give them a gentle squeeze.
“Hi, Clara.”
A watery smile flits around her eyes, broadens her mouth and causes dimples to appear in her cheeks. We eat.
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Aren’t boys rotten! You give them a simple instruction; “text me;” and can they do it? No! It’s exactly the same with first dates; they promise you the earth as they spread your creamy thighs and slide their thick cock into your lustful, warm, wet pussy but come the morning the fingers that danced so adroitly across your shivering skin can’t seem to find their way around a mobile’s keypad. Sometimes I despair of men, I really do ... but it usually passes by the morning.
I am vexed and fraught by the time I arrive home from work, the possibility of rejection preying on my every insecurity. Of course they want me; how could they not? Am I not desirable? Am I not a perfectly packaged personification of every red blooded male’s fantasy woman?
I scuff my feet across the carpet, push myself into the kitchen and fix myself a Vodka & Tonic. Sipping at my drink, I wander aimlessly back through my home, my fingers picking at my belongings, until I find myself stood before the full length mirror in my boudoir, delectable little me returning my enquiring look.
I push out my chest but can’t convince myself that my breasts aren’t too small; too much décolletage and not enough mammary maybe, but my abdomen is washboard flat and my waist nips delightfully before curving out to the fullness of my hips. I turn and survey myself in silhouette; dainty feet, finely turned ankle bones, slender calves, kneecaps that fit snugly into my leg and firm thighs that taper gently outwards; my legs are slender toned and perfectly proportioned. My eyes wander up to the roundness of my bottom. Though hidden beneath my skirt, they are perfect globules, their skin flawless with just enough flesh to quiver delightfully when I walk yet still firm and young enough not to suffer the tell tale sag of aging.
I turn back and face myself once more, my eyes sparkling, my mouth breaking into a smile, my elfin face enlivened and mischievous.
“My, what a fine filly you are. I bet you’re a good ride.”
I toss my hair, give a pretend neigh, giggle at my silliness and then reply in my best country maid voice.
“Oh yes, fine sir. I was made to be ridden and can go at quite a gallop for many an hour.”
Instantly the laughter dies in my voice, my eyes harden and my mouth thins as I continue.
“And I’m quite sure I can satisfy two young colts who don’t seem to know how to use their bloody mobile phones.”
But they will come. How could they possibly not?
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There is nothing as soothing and luxuriant as a hot bath. Rose scented billows of steam fill the room from the bath bomb that fizzles across the surface of the rapidly deepening water. I strip aside my romantic woes, discard them to lie bundled with my soiled clothing; encase myself in my largest, fluffiest towel and, once I have created the perfect mix of hot and cold water, immerse myself and allow the delicious heat to soak into my skin.
I close my eyes and allow myself to drift as my fingers explore their way across my skin. Time jerks forward, somewhere a clock chimes eight and suddenly there I am answering a tentative knock on my door to find my handsome lovers stood awaiting my attentions; faces filled with desire, pouting lips urgently in need of tender kisses and stiff cocks straining within their too tight trousers.
Time flits; a slideshow of delectable moments yet to be enjoyed project themselves across my mental synapses.
I am on my knees, hands fumbling with buttons and zippers, releasing their throbbing gristle to stand proudly before them. I encircle them with thumb and forefinger, marvelling at their swollen girth and the heat that pulses against my palm. I pull them towards me so that their smooth heads rest prettily side by side caressing each other as I run my dripping tongue across them, soaking them with my saliva and leaving them shimmering in the light.
Robert’s oozes precum. The poor boy has yet to experience the delights of ramming his shaft past my tonsils to the silky accommodation of my throat and the anticipation is causing him to pulse expectantly with every flick of my tongue across his head. I give Jonathon a little “don’t worry, I’ll be back for you” suckle, slide my tongue across both heads as they rub together, pull back my teeth, spread my lips wide and impale myself on Robert’s thick cock.
My mouth is being pulled wide, two cocks slide across each other at diagonals like a pair of pistons pumping in perfect synchronisation, ramming into my hamster-like cheeks, my chin soaked as saliva bubbles uncontrollably from my bottom lip to drip down and create Pollock patterns on the plain carpeting.
Cum covers my face, trickles down my nose, pools in my eyes, dribbles into my mouth as my hungry tongue extends in every direction in a vain attempt to lick myself clean of every last drop and all the while Robert slaps his mighty meat against my bespattered cheeks.
Jonathon pushes me down onto all fours, presses my head into the soaking carpet, his hand wrapped in the damp tendrils of my hair. My beleaguered, yawning, empty pussy begging for attention as his saliva coated tool spreads my twitching anus and drives down deep into the depths of my intestine.
I’m kneeling before Robert, cum seeping from my well-fucked arse to lubricate my calves, my little tongue sliding down his balls, across his perineum to probe his puckered hole as he masturbates himself back to full rigidity so that I can have the fucking I so richly deserve.
Deposited on Robert’s cock, my pussy lips stretched wide to accommodate his girth, arms coiled around his neck, legs wrapped around his abdomen, feet clinging to his buttocks, back sliding up and down the smooth wall, arse smacking against the plasterwork, eyes staring unseeingly, mouth agape in a silent ecstatic scream as he ravages my ejaculating pussy with his throbbing muscle.
Collapsed in an exhausted heap on the floor, body twitching and coated in sweat. Hands entangled in my hair dragging me half crawling, half stumbling, carpet burning my knees. Picked up and skewered on Jonathon’s loving muscle, my tiny breasts quivering like well set jelly as he thrusts deep into my squelching core.
Pushed forward, my mouth suckling at Jonathon’s lightly haired male treat as Robert slowly but remorselessly feeds his thickness into my cum slick arse.
Someone’s hands pull my head back, sweat drips from every pore of my body and my cum juices soak everything. Jonathon’s fingers fill my mouth and I suck frantically as I feel them slide into my throat. Pussy filled. Arse filled. Twin cocks riding me in unison, they’re swollen cockheads rubbing fervently at the thin membrane between vagina and anus, ramming into each other, tips kissing deep inside my wondrously pleasured body as I spiral towards orgasmic oblivion.
My eyes snap open and I am returned to the here and now; to cooling waters and wandering fingers that have inflamed my need. I ache desperately but this is an itch that even my trusted fingers can’t scratch. No, this is the excitement of the hunt; that final adrenaline rush that all victims experience just before the predator pounces.
And I can’t wait to be devoured.
Exiting the bath I wrap my towel around me, its every tickling touch teasing my skin. Carefully and gently I pat myself dry, my ears deaf to my bodies pleading cries. Slowly but surely I run the fluffy fabric across every tiny crease and remove every sign of dampness from my flesh. My synapses quiver expectantly and my weak legs shake beneath the weight of my lust.
There are no messages on my phone but my doubts have fled to darken other doorsteps. They will come I am certain. They will avail themselves of this body whose sole purpose is to be a receptacle for their glorious cocks. They really are quite smitten and once they have quenched their parched throats with the nectar of my cum I’m sure they’ll never want to leave.
I throw open my wardrobe and pick through my clothing for the perfect outfit but somehow none of them feel quite right. Too long, too conservative, too last season, too daywear ... none seem appropriate for the message I wish to send. Then, from some dark unused crevice of my brain, a simple thought springs to life.
“It pays to advertise.”
Exactly.
“It pays to advertise.”
40 minutes later I am sat in my favourite chair, sipping at a second drink and trying to avoid contemplating the passage of time. Day has turned to night, curtains have been pulled shut and a standard lamp in the far corner throws oblique rays of red tinged light to give my sanctuary a warm glow.
I sit upright; chin up, shoulders back, straightened hair flowing half way down my back, buttocks perched on the edge of the seat, heels together and my hand gripping the glass that balances on my knees. I am coiled and ready; like a sprinter in the blocks or a tigress stalking her prey, my eyes burn unnaturally bright and the dull ache of tension squeezes at my stomach.
Time crawls onwards; the ice in my glass becomes water and the second hand continues its inexorable revolutions of the dial. At 8.52 and 36 seconds I contemplate crying but figure that it will only ruin the makeup I spent so long getting just right. Instead, I settle on drowning my sorrows in alcohol and have just entered the kitchen when the doorbell chimes.
My hand shakes as I place the tumbler down on the counter top and I can feel my thighs quivering as I step on uncertain feet towards the front door. I pause in the hallway suddenly full of doubt and amazed at the recklessness of my own actions. I consider my ‘outfit’; a pair of 4” diamante studded ankle strap heels, my body prepared with glittering moisturiser, my pubis and breasts decorated with shimmering body dust; every inch of me brazenly naked and displayed for their delectation; everything available for them to fondle caress and paw; every fibre of me screaming for their attentions.
I am moments away from inviting two near strangers to invade my inner sanctum, my refuge, my home and I’ve dressed like a desperate slut to do it. I freeze transfixed by my own stupidity and slowly count to ten.
I’m on six when the doorbell chimes again. I reach the door before seven, flick open the latch, swing the door wide and announce in my best imitation of Eva Herzigova (minus the Wonderbra):
“Hello Boys.”
Author’s Note
My Oh my, dear reader, she does seem a rather brazen little hussy; not quite the sort of character I expect to appear in one of my happy little tales.
In truth she has almost made me afraid to put pen to paper ... she is, after all, my creation and I feel awfully responsible for her. I mean, how would I feel if something terrible happened to her ... I really don’t think I could bear it.
But then again, it might be rather deliciously enjoyable to watch her little body writhe helplessly as those big bad boys have their wicked way with her.
Mmmmm! That would be very nice indeed.
Thank you for reading. Please do vote, comment or write if you so desire.
Your humble servant,
Cum Girl x
