On a Slippery Slope

I wake up to the sound of my alarm, leap out of bed like a kid, grab a quick shower and gobble down some toast. I dress in a hurry and snatch up the envelope. I'll shred it as soon as I get to my office. With my luck, Mr. Johnson will enter my apartment today, trying to hunt down some plumbing or electrical problem in the building, and find the damned thing. Then, thinking better of it, I hide it at the bottom of my underwear drawer.

I arrive at work earlier than usual and look around for Brian. He isn't here. It is important for me to see him in person, to detect any hint that he might be my stalker. I retreat to the lunchroom for a cup of coffee, trying to fight back my anxiety. If I have to, I'll sabotage my computer again to get his attention.

Just when I think I might burst into tears, I see him in the hallway.

"Hey Brian," I call, "want some coffee?"

"You bet," he replies with a smile. An innocent smile.

We spend the next ten minutes in idle conversation. I see nothing to indicate that he is the man who fucked me so thoroughly last night. He takes a seat across from me at the table, so I'm not close enough to get a whiff of his aftershave. And I have to get pretty close; my sense of smell is not very sharp.

As usual, his phone chirps and he dashes off on a trouble call. I am left sitting by myself with a half empty cup in my hand, dejected by his abrupt departure.

My boss is thrilled to see me and relieved to find me feeling well. I owe her big time because of my poor performance on Tuesday and my deceit yesterday. I spend the rest of the day making it up to her, busting my ass to catch up with my work and restore her faith in me. I get home around six and find nothing of interest in my mailbox. I know it's too early for things to heat up again, but I am disappointed nonetheless.

Friday's mail is a different story altogether. I find a padded envelope in the box and rush inside my apartment. Tearing the envelope apart, I retrieve a DVD in its plastic case. A sticky note is attached that reads, 'This is the only copy. You have my word.' I am thrilled, convinced there will be something on the video that will help me identify my stalker. I set it aside to view after dinner when I can give it my undivided attention.

It is nearly eight thirty when I crawl into bed with my laptop and insert the DVD into the drive. My excitement is nearly uncontrollable. I note that it has been exactly forty-eight hours since I returned from my stalker's house.

The video is a quality product; high definition with perfect reproduction of sound and excellent color rendition. My dress literally leaps off the screen as it has the only colors in the antiseptic room. But the video turns out to be a mixed blessing.

On the downside, it has been carefully edited. My stalker's face has been expunged like reporters do on TV to obscure someone's identity. He appears to be pretty close to Brian's size and his hair color matches, but I don't have enough information to rule him in, or out, as the primary suspect.

On the upside, my stalker has a nice body and I get to watch him do everything he did to me that night. The camera angles and zoom shots are perfect. Other than the actual sex acts he performed on me, watching myself being fucked is the biggest turn-on I've ever experienced. I am soon digging around in the nightstand for my favorite vibrator. I wonder if it's possible to wear out a DVD.

The video presents one more possibility. I have enough information about my stalker's appearance to compare his body type to the two other technicians at the computer store. If neither of them is a match, Brian will be my primary suspect.

****

It is now Saturday. The crowd from work had earlier agreed to meet late in the afternoon at a favorite sports bar. It is nice to get out socially with my friends. Angie's presence, as always, completes the gathering. She is wildly popular with everyone.

I fend off a drunk who has stationed himself at the end of the bar near the ladies room and tries to grope every woman who passes by. The second time he tries to grab my ass, an arm darts out from behind me to snatch the guy off his bar stool. I turn to see who my benefactor is. It's Brian and I am thrilled. I didn't expect to see him here. It is the first time we have ever been in the same room together outside of work. Maybe.

Brian says something to the jerk and he stumbles drunkenly out of the bar.

"Sorry about that Carla" he says. "Guys like that are a pain in the ass."

"Thanks for getting rid of him," I respond. "Let me buy you a drink as a reward."

"I believe I'll take you up on that," he replies with a grin. "A draft will do just fine."

I order two Stella drafts and we sit chatting at the bar for fifteen minutes or so. While we are talking, I lean in from time to time, trying to identify his aftershave. But it is too late in the day and his scent has faded. I also study his body as discreetly as possible, trying to memorize as much as I can for comparison with the video of my stalker.

"Care for another?" I ask as I finish my beer.

"Unfortunately, I have to run. I'm working at the computer store tonight," he informs me, "but thanks for this one. Maybe we can do it again sometime."

Goddammit! I think to myself.

"You're welcome and I'd love to. Have a nice weekend. See you next week," I say with a cheery smile that belies my suddenly grumpy attitude.

"Fuck it," I mutter under my breath and wave to my friends, all still having a blast, then head for home to sulk.

I'm in such a funk that I eat another frozen pizza, watch an old movie on TV, and then go to bed, in no mood to watch myself get screwed.

Somehow, I wake up refreshed the next morning. I go out for breakfast and linger over a second cup of coffee when I finish eating.

After replaying the past few days in my head, I reach a decision. I am going to play and replay the video as many times as necessary to gather as much information about my stalker as I can. Then I'm going to take a peek at the other two technicians at the computer store to see if I can eliminate them as suspects. Fortunately the store is open on Sundays.

My determination renewed, I return home and slip the DVD into my laptop. Doing my best to ignore the sex, I study my stalker intently. After a couple of run-throughs, I have a decent description written down on scratch paper.

I look up the dimensions of a king-sized bed on the internet. Then, using a ruler, I estimate that my stalker is six feet tall. He has light brown, close-cropped hair and broad shoulders. He is nicely muscled with a flat stomach, well developed pectorals, and impressive biceps.

I try not to look at his cock too often, but I employ the ruler trick and discover that he is larger than normal by a considerable margin, which confirms the conclusion I reached on Wednesday night when he entered me.

I have no trouble convincing myself that I am looking at Brian in the video, but I have never seen the other two technicians. Armed with a mental picture of my stalker, I head for the computer shop.

Entering the store, I head immediately for the software aisles where I can observe the repair counter from a distance. I stand there less than two minutes before the store manager walks up to me.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"Just browsing for the moment," I reply. And then an idea pops into my head. "A while ago, Brian Devlin repaired my laptop."

"Is there a problem?" he asks.

"Not at all. He did a great job, but he mentioned that you have two other technicians who may have worked on my machine as well."

"That would be Zahir and Mason," he responds.

"Zahir?"

"He's from India. Quite the genius. He's not here today, but Mason is working if you need to speak to him."

I nearly pass out. One guy eliminated already. Nothing about my stalker suggests lineage from that part of the world.

"I'll browse a bit and then go thank Mason," I tell him, now wishing he'd go away.

"Well, take your time. Track me down if you need anything, and have a nice day."

"You too," I respond; now fairly itching to catch a glimpse of Mason.

My luck holds. A minute later the door in the back of the tech area opens and a short, prematurely balding young man comes out carrying a laptop. I stroll over toward the counter, looking at a variety of products until I get close enough to read his nametag. It says 'Mason' in big beautiful letters.

I can't get out of the store fast enough. I am elated but I'm not stupid. Either of those guys could still have been involved, hiding malware in my laptop on behalf of a third party, but I think it's unlikely. In all probability, I have narrowed my suspects down to Brian and some unknown outside hacker. If it is the latter, I have little recourse but to turn my laptop in for the sheriff's forensic computer jocks to go after the guy if I want to pursue the matter. That option doesn't sit well with me. I decide to put my money on Brian.

Feeling cheerful, I head to my parent's house for Sunday dinner. The usual crowd is there, including Angie. We have a nice time.

My mailbox is full when I get home Monday evening. I retrieve the pile and enter my apartment. There is one bill. The rest is junk. There is nothing from my stalker. Now I have to figure out how to survive until mail delivery tomorrow.

Tuesday's mail doesn't produce a damned thing, nor does the rest of the week. I slip back into a funk and stay there. I see Brian from time to time but we have little opportunity to talk. When I do see him, I study him closely and reinforce my conclusion that he is my stalker.

I begin to believe we have had our one and only encounter. The thought depresses me. I want to go back into that house. I have two more stories saved and they contain lots of different ways I can be constrained and fucked.

Another week goes by. I give up. It's Friday, but I am in such a bad mood that I wave off several invitations to attend happy hour with my co-workers. When I get home, I almost leave my mail in the box, but habit prevails and I pull out the few items that are inside.

I nearly faint when I spot the small envelope. My hands are shaking uncontrollably when I rip it open. The words on the card inside make my heart beat wildly in my chest.

"Tomorrow night at seven. Wear the same dress. Leave the bra and panties at home. Do not masturbate tonight. You know what to do when you get here. We will use the same safe word."

It suddenly dawns on me why it has taken so long for him to contact me. It obviously required much time and effort for him to prepare the bondage room for our first encounter. I now understand that it has taken this long to prepare for tomorrow night. He must have something really special in mind. I feel a delicious tingling between my legs and realize I am lubricating for the first time in days.

As before, I defy my stalker. At bedtime, I watch him use my body over and over, cumming repeatedly with the aid of my fingers, my vibrators, and the favored dildo.

****

I was a wreck the day of our first encounter, nerves dominating my feelings. Today is different. I don't need to start preparing myself until late afternoon so I spend my day cleaning house and running errands, all mindless activities that allow me to daydream about what will happen to me tonight.

There are many possibilities embodied in my two remaining stories. A fucking machine, a gynecological examining table, and a specially designed structure dominate my thoughts. The butt plug is also on my mind. I can hardly wait to find out what he has chosen for me.

At five thirty I begin getting ready, repeating the precautionary enema, showering, shaving my legs, trimming my landing strip, and rubbing a hydrating lotion into my skin. I do not bother to check my body for flaws; there are none.

Six thirty arrives. I don my dress and select the same shoes I wore the last time. Perfume, lip gloss, and a little mascara complete my preparations. At a quarter to seven I lock my apartment and depart for my rendezvous. There is a spring in my step and I have to fight the urge to hurry. His house comes into view and my heart begins to race. Moments later I am standing in the entryway, smiling brightly up into the camera lens.

"Welcome back, Carla," says The Voice. "Did you masturbate last night?"

"No," I reply, lying to him once again. It's none of his business. What I did last night will have no impact on my responses tonight.

"Excellent. Now go into the room on your left and shut the door behind you." The last time he sent me to the room on the right. That door is closed.

I enter a room that is just as austere as the one we used before. It has the same white walls, polished hardwood floors, cameras, speakers, and pencil spotlights. The Voice remains silent, allowing me time to study my surroundings.

The very center of the room is occupied by something I recognize immediately from one of the stories, but it is difficult to describe.

My brother used to ride a type of motorcycle he called a 'crotch rocket' because of its speed. It was a strange machine. He had to literally lie on top of the fuel tank and reach around the tank and down to grasp the handle bars. The foot pegs and shift lever were positioned in a manner that made him appear to be resting all his weight on his hands, stomach, and knees.

Brian told me he likes motorcycles, so a crotch rocket may have been the inspiration for the object in front of me. There are two roomy indentations, widely spaced, for my knees. Restraining straps dangle below each one. There is a cutout between the indentations that will provide room for my stalker to stand and fuck me from behind. The top of the device is arched over in the shape of a rainbow. Near the top of the arch is a generous indentation to accommodate my breasts. Just over the top is a hole with a padded rim for my face, much like a massage table. There are two handles on the far side of the arch, one on each side for me to grasp. Handcuffs dangle from ring bolts near each handle. The entire structure is heavily padded for comfort.

I know that when I get on the device, straps will secure my legs across the calves. My torso will be draped over the arch and the handcuffs will constrain my arms and hands, keeping me in position. I can use the handles if I wish but they are not part of the restraint system. My ass and pussy will be completely exposed and available for my stalker's use when he positions himself behind me.

A small table beside the arched device contains the cat 'o nine tails I enjoyed before, a tube of lubricant, some sort of mask that is probably a hood, and a butt plug. I have seen pictures of butt plugs on websites that specialize in sex toys, but this is my first exposure to the real thing.

I walk over to the table and pick it up. It is made from some sort of firm jelly. Six inches long, it tapers from a slim tip at the top down to wide section more than an inch in diameter. Just below the wide part is a wasp-waist indentation and then a flared base. I understand why it has that shape and I know where he is going to put it, but I have no idea how it is supposed to provide pleasure for him or for me. It is a totally passive device.

"Slowly remove your dress, please," says The Voice, "but keep your shoes on."

I prefer to be barefoot during sex, but he is calling the shots. I conclude that he wants me to look a little bit slutty when he straps me into the device he has built. I do as he asks, taking my time with the buttons and then dropping the garment to the floor.

"Please mount the structure to make sure the dimensions are correct."

So I give it a test ride. My body fits perfectly which gives more credence to the idea that Brian is my stalker. Whoever built this thing has clearly had time to study my body and make accurate estimates of shape and proportion. My breasts fill the indentation provided; the sensitive nipples barely brushing the surface inside. My face rests nicely in its niche. I can see the hardwood floor beneath the device. I am completely comfortable.

"Stand up please," directs The Voice, "and put on the hood."

I am leery of the hood for some reason, but I do as he commands. The hood is made of black felt. There is ample room for my hair. My eyes are completely covered but my mouth and nose are not. When the hood is in place, thick padded areas cover my ears. I am now deprived of two senses and immediately have an attack of vertigo. I yank the hood from my head.

"I understand," says The Voice. "It will take a few seconds to become accustomed to the hood, Please try again."

Reluctantly, I do as he says and this time I do not experience vertigo. After a few deep breaths, I know I can tolerate the hood.

"Good, good," he says, "now please mount the device."

I run one hand down the padding until I encounter the indentation for my breasts. Now oriented, I insert my knees, drape my body across the arch to grasp the handles, and begin lubricating heavily.

Because of the ear muffs in the hood, I do not know he is in the room until I feel him secure the straps across my legs. Seconds later the cuffs are snapped onto my wrists. I maintain a tight grip on the handles and know that I will continue to do so the entire time I am restrained on the device.

He wastes little time. I feel a delicious tingle as he moves the silken knots of the cat o' nine tails over my legs and back. He is soon concentrating his efforts on the insides of my thighs. I shiver with excitement. He continues for several minutes, then abruptly stops and begins to slide his fingers up and down my pussy, pausing from time to time to circle my clitoris. I moan with pleasure.

I have some freedom of movement so I rock my hips backward against his hand, encouraging him to finger fuck me. I love to be finger fucked and often do it to myself, but there is no substitute for a man who knows what he's doing. My stalker gets the message and eases a couple of fingers deep inside. I let out a soft cry.

He works his fingers like magic, and I am quickly on my way to a thunderous orgasm as he alternates his attention between my clitoris and the inside of my pussy. Suddenly he slips something into my ass. I'm pretty certain it's his thumb. With his middle two fingers in my pussy and his thumb probing my ass, he has me in what is crudely called 'the bowling ball grip' in a story I read on the website.

I don't care what it's called. I have never felt anything like this. I have very little anal experience but I am learning fast. I wiggle my ass as much as I can while he works his thumb in and out and increases the speed of his fingers in my pussy. I am now crying out continuously into the interior of the device. I don't know if he can hear me, so I lift my face out of the opening briefly and give a loud moan to let him know I like what's he's doing to me.

I feel him reach underneath my pussy with his other hand and slide his fingers up to begin caressing my clit. As he manipulates the delicate flesh, the pleasure is nearly unbearable. I scream into the hole as he increases the pressure on my clit, fucks my ass more forcefully with his thumb, and rapidly works his fingers round and round in my pussy.

I feverishly clutch the handles as my body shudders with wave after wave of orgasmic contractions. He does not let up. I am held in a continuous orgasmic state for what seems like an eternity. My screams continue as my pussy clamps rhythmically around his still-probing fingers.

Finally, mercifully, he slows his pace and allows me to come gently back down. I relax and let my body mold itself once again to the wonderful device he has created. When my breathing returns to something resembling normalcy, he withdraws his thumb and then his fingers. I hope he is not finished with me. I want him to fuck me.