The Stalker – Epilogues and Author Notes

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May 24, 2023 // By:analsex // No Comment

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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. —————————————- 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.

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