THIS WEBPAGE CONTAINS ADULT MATERIAL. RESTRICTED TO 18 YEARS OF AGE AND OLDER
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Lovers Middle-Aged or Older
His stalking began with obsession, as most stalking does. The young, pretty college girl didn't have a clue. She drove her white Jetta into the fast-lube dock for a four-thousand mile lube and oil change, sat in the waiting area and read an old copy of People magazine while the men worked on her car. One of those men - the one who called her into the work area and proceeded to tell her about the Jetta's dirty air filter and the shop's special flush-and-fill package - later went into the computer and got the girl's address. A week later, he began parking outside her apartment complex. He was patient, enduring hours-long vigils in his car while waiting for her to emerge from her building. The waiting paid off, for in a couple weeks he got to know where she went to school, where she shopped, met friends, did her business.
She'd seen him, but only in passing. He was a blur in the corner of her eye - just another vehicle in her rearview mirror, a piece of furniture on the fringes of her busy life. He'd been subtle, slipping under her radar like a stealth bomber on mission. This would change, he knew, for he could not realize his fantasies remaining in the shadows forever. At some point, he'd emerge from anonymity and introduce himself, and not in a polite way, either. His vision had her bound and gagged, her eyes bulging with terror, her fate in his hands. He could picture it, could see it happening, and wanted it so badly he could taste it. How to get her there was the problem. Would he lure her in with some clever ruse - something that on the surface looked legit and plausible? Or would he abduct her in one violent rush? He wasn't sure. No matter - he figured time was on his side. He'd work something out - the time and place, the method and logistics.
He'd been down this road before. She wasn't the first of his would-be victims. There had been others that he obsessed on and then acted on and then paid the price for having done so. He'd done jail time and time on parole and probation. The system forced him to register as a sex offender, and outraged neighbors forced him out of his apartment: the one he had lived in before his parents died and left him their house - one surrounded by neighbors who had never learned of his sordid past. He tried therapy and so-called rehabilitation programs that went nowhere. Truth be told, people like him couldn't be rehabilitated.
Indeed, he was a confirmed predator, doing his thing on this warm, sunny, mid-September afternoon, watching the college girl traipse across campus, her long, long hair blowing in her face. She carried her backpack slung over her shoulder, and her white shorts, hemmed at mid-thigh, accentuated her smooth, slender legs, still tan from a summer fading into its final days. He kept a good distance behind, all but invisible to her and the young students going to and from class. Dressed in a lightweight green sports jacket and off-white jeans, toting a black briefcase, he could pass as one of the school's professors - perhaps even a student pursuing a degree relatively late in life.
He followed her to the patio of the college library and took a seat among the several metal-wicker tables and chairs. On the steps to the library entrance, she was talking to another student, a tall, jeans-clad kid with a shaved head. Was he her boyfriend, or just another friend, he wondered? She looked animated, engrossed, smiling at him through their conversation, oblivious to the stranger a few yards away whose mind raced with evil thoughts. His erection said it all - spoke of the devil in him.
Her conversation over, she slipped into the building and he followed, strolling through the lobby and then descending to the second floor, with its row upon row of gray-metal bookshelves holding bound journals and magazines. Aside from the few students gathered at the tables in front, activity on this floor was light, especially toward the back, where one could duck into one of the side alcoves and engross oneself in one's work. Taking cover behind the stacks, he grabbed one of the journals and pretended to look through it, while watching her as she took a seat in one of the alcoves, plugged in her laptop, and went to work.
Between his pretenses of reading and glancing around to see if any eyes were on him, he focused on his target, whose long hair was visible through the back of the wood frame chair. Given that her legs were crossed under the desk, a generous swath of thigh remained available for his viewing pleasure. She sat a good half-block distant from personnel in front and an emergency exit door just a few feet from her alcove afforded him an easy escape route. He'd need one only if he had the gumption to act out his fantasy: an outrageous scenario which had him slapping duck tape over her mouth and then ripping off her shorts and pink halter. His excitement rose in unison with his dick.
Holding the journal, his eyes glued to the page, he nudged himself closer, inch by inch, glancing up every few seconds. The four bookshelves that separated them became three and then two. His fantasy skirted on the edge of his reality, turning what was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission into a full-contact operation. He had brought the duck tape after all, a fresh silver spool of the stuff tucked into his jacket pocket. He went through the motions in his mind: the theoretical plausibility of committing the act and then escaping unscathed. It wouldn't work - even his sick, warped self could see that.
Besides, he was no longer alone. A skinny kid with long black hair dressed in shorts and flip-flops came by and took the alcove next to hers. The kid glanced sideways at him, quizzical if not a tad suspicious. He then looked away, threw his books on the desk and then looked again at the older man in the green sports jacket hanging awkwardly by the bookshelf, staring at the girl in front of him. Then the girl turned around, alerted by a sense of something not quite right, of something foreign that seemed poised to invade her workspace, her hands still set in typing position.
He felt cornered, felt like the proverbial deer in the headlights. The tables had turned. Now he was under surveillance, zeroed in on by these kids, aroused and concerned. The emergency exit beckoned. However, in those split seconds of decision, he knew that running toward it would extend his exposure time - would give her brain a chance to form an indelible image of him.
Before she did, he did an abrupt about-face, made a beeline to the front and took the stairs two at a time to the third floor lobby. Briefly, he looked back, and then burst out the door and half-jogged to his vehicle parked across campus. Fantasy would one day become reality. But not today.