My Invisible Staler

A Big Thank You

to my patient and fantastic editor, Ken! If you like this story, blame him. If you don't like it, you know who to blame...

Warnings:

As hinted at in the title, this story involves a man stalking a woman. The story also contains non-consensual sex, but also something known as Consensual Non-Consent, or CNC. To quote the noted author Bellie444, also on Literotica, "I do not support or condone the actions of my villains. I do, however, know that CNC can be fucking hot."

**

My Invisible Stalker

Sally's frightening fantasy comes true. Repeatedly.

**

Lots of people get the feeling, at one time or another, that someone is looking at them a bit too much. If it happens on the sidewalk they might turn around casually as if to check out a store window or something. Or they may adjust their makeup with a compact so they can look behind themselves using its mirror. It's to determine just whose eyes are burrowing into their back.

Sometimes, the feeling of being watched is so intense I feel as if the back of my bra strap is catching fire. That's why I didn't wear a bra yesterday. It only made things worse: the feeling got even more intense, but now it was on the bare skin of my back! I think men were checking to see if I truly was, or was not, wearing a bra, and it wasn't just one man, it was lots of them. So what if I had skipped the bra? It's not a crime, you know. Anyway, these days it's hotter than it should ever be, and people are walking around drowning in rivers of sweat.

The sidewalks are busy here in New York. Most people get around via the subway (which thank goodness is brilliantly air-conditioned), and they have to walk from where they are to the subway entrance. At the other end, they have to walk to their destination. Lots of walking leads to lots of bouncing of my boobs. I hope the stalker is enjoying that!

Today I ducked into a café at the last minute. The air conditioning (AC) blasted at me. I love AC. I got in line for a coffee concoction and happily discovered nobody had entered after me. I had entered a stalker-free zone. I enjoyed being stalker-free and reading my novel on my phone while I sipped at my drink. It had enough calories to fuel me for the rest of the day. I decided not to finish the whole drink.

One way to tell how overheated you are is to see how long it takes the AC to cool you off to the point where your nipples get hard. These days it had been so relentlessly hot that it was taking a good twenty minutes for my nipples to cool off to the point where they became cold and then hard.

As I read my book and sipped my drink I felt my nipples begin to get hard, but more significantly I felt that same familiar dreaded feeling of eyes studying me. Shit. Why can't he leave me alone? What does he want, anyway? Applying my mother's logic, I knew what he wanted. He wants what all men want, Sally. It's between your legs.

Mom's out of date now. My ex-boyfriend could often be bought off with just a blowjob. Not a hand job but a blowjob. Men really like blowjobs, and I'm told I give a good one.

I know what everyone thinks. All my friends think I don't have a stalker, I'm just paranoid, and in the wisdom of my best friend Electra, I quite simply just need to get laid, right? How long has it been anyway, Electra asked me the other day.

"Long," I told her.

"Well then, there you are. It's all in your head. Take some guy to bed and your invisible stalker will disappear."

"I don't have any candidates for sharing my bed, Ellie," I said, Ellie being Electra's preferred nickname.

"Find one, then! You're young, pretty, and have a good body to share with some lucky guy," she said.

"Got any candidates? Because I sure don't."

"The streets of New York are full of them."

"I'm not going to find some stranger to seduce and offer up my body to. Is that your plan for me, Ellie?" My voice revealed my low-level anger.

"The Yale Club of New York has these mixers for recent graduates. There's one coming up this Saturday. Come with me: it will be fun!"

"I didn't go to Yale," I said. Ellie had gone to Yale, but I didn't get in.

"You're a woman, though," she said.

"I'm well aware of that, and so is my gynecologist," I replied.

"You went to Smith. That's a snobby enough school. Lots of Yale men love to dip their wicks in Smith girls, right?" Ellie said. I didn't answer that. After the silence, she said, "I can bring you as my guest."

"I'll bring my stalker," I replied.

"Invisible guests are always welcome," she declared. "Do invisible guests eat and drink?"

"Of course," I replied.

"How many invisible guests will be coming with you?"

"Only one, of course. Oh my God, what if I have more than one stalker?" I said. I was thinking of those cop shows on TV when they tail someone using several unmarked cars, and two, three, or four cops.

"Don't worry, Sally. They'll mostly want booze, and the Yale Club is not about to run out of it. Are you horny for a threesome or something?"

"Perish the thought! I can barely handle one man," I said. I made a mess of my last one, I sadly recalled. Brad was my last one. At one point I had even thought we might get married.

**

I thought about it. Brad was a great guy with all the traits I could ever have wanted in a man, except one. The exception was the bedroom, but one can't have everything, and I was willing to forego good sex. However, one time he came back to our little off-campus shack in the middle of the night after an interview over in Boston. It was 3 AM and I was fast asleep. Suddenly I woke when I felt a hard cock enter me!

I checked that it was Brad (like, who else would it be? Brad was the only man who had those intimate privileges with me; still, as Ronald Reagan once said, it's good to trust, but sometimes one also needs to verify).

Brad wasn't fucking me like he typically did, though. Brad always gave me lots and lots of foreplay and then entered me as if he were tiptoeing into a holy church where nothing was supposed to be disturbed. Sometimes I felt as if he should light one of those candles in the decorated glass jars and then get his yah-yahs out with me. He never did, though, except for this one time.

This time he was pummeling me, fucking me with a force I didn't know he even had! It was exciting. It was thrilling. I felt as if I were being taken, being turned into a submissive and depraved woman by a man who wouldn't take no for an answer. This was in stark contrast to my usual milquetoast lover named Brad.

"Ooh. Fuck me hard. Oh yeah," I had said, at first thinking it was all a quite visceral dream.

That one middle-of-the-night frantic sex session changed me profoundly. Many future erotic dreams replayed that fabulous fucking in my mind. It served as fuel for all my masturbation for years.

I tried gently to bring it up the next day. Brad hates talking about sex, but this time he surprised me. He claimed he had no memory of taking me like he did and he would never do such a thing. He remembered coming home very late, but his memory for the rest was a blank.

"Why were you so late?" I had asked him. Big mistake. He blushed, began to stammer, and then imitated a clam who had been removed from the intertidal zone but not yet cooked.

I had some good friends in Boston at the time and through them I discovered Brad, my Brad, my very own and loyal boyfriend Brad had gone to a party at Boston University after his interview and tried to score with a coed who had the reputation of being easy. Even with her reputation, however, Brad struck out with her.

Frustrated, Brad came home to me: his reliable girlfriend with her open legs. With me, he could restore his bruised masculine ego. That was the beginning of the end for Brad. At the same time, it was the beginning of my dreams and fantasies of being taken by surprise, by force, in the middle of the night in my sleep.

**

Ellie continued. "If there are two men and they're invisible ..."

"Stop it, Ellie. This is getting ridiculous," I said.

"So you'll come? Saturday, 8 PM, and bring your kissing lips," Ellie said, and we both giggled. It reminded me of that wild party my senior year in high school, which now seemed truly long ago. Ages ago yet still quite memorable.

We left the café and went our separate ways. A couple of minutes later I felt his eyes on my bra strap again. I whirled around and this time, for the first time, I actually saw my invisible stalker! There was precisely one person behind me. He was a man. He had to be my stalker! He had a cap on -- not a cheap baseball cap but one of those fancy English caps you might wear when you tool around the countryside in your MG sports car. He also was wearing a Covid mask, mirrored sunglasses, and a black phone stuck to his left ear. In short, if he were later to be in a police lineup I'd have no idea who he was. All I could say for sure was that he was a man, a white man. He never broke stride and walked right by me.

As he passed me, he said, "Givenchy. Néroli. Nice." I felt faint. How could a man recognize which perfume I had on? Granted, I typically apply Néroli liberally, and I imagine there's a small cloud of perfumed air that follows me as I walk, so he knows I'm wearing perfume. However, even Ellie would have had a hard time identifying the exact scent. Maybe he can tell it's not Nina Ricci from the local CVS, but he got it spot on! Then after freaking me out he just kept walking.

Oh my God, has he been inside my apartment? Has he checked out the perfumes decorating the top of my lingerie chest? Maybe he'd hacked my phone and saw that I charged the perfume purchase at Saks Fifth Avenue last week? Maybe he was in Saks, spying on me, as I bought the perfume? Yes, that's the simplest explanation. Occam's razor and all that. He figured I'd wear it, because it's new, and that's how he guessed. Simple.

All of this could be a coincidence. Maybe he really was talking on the phone? Maybe he really was discussing perfume on the phone? It could be for example what scent to buy his girlfriend or his mother. None of it explains, however, the eyes burrowing into my back that I felt before he passed me on the sidewalk.

Well, time for me to forget my no-longer-invisible stalker, I thought, as I watched him walk away from me. Walking away from me is a good look for him.

The epiphany arrived. I recognized his walk! Holy crap. Yes, he favored his right foot ever so slightly, and in a particular way. I'd seen that walk before. I saw it for six years, from seventh grade to senior year back in high school. I must know the bastard!

Why couldn't he be a stalker from my college years? Why did middle school and high school, with all of their traumas, have to rear their ugly heads? Why-oh-why? My mother always said when I bemoaned "Why?" that Y is a crooked letter. Back in the day, that wasn't helpful, and its memory now is even less helpful. Who had that walk, anyway? If only I could remember.

After having tried to suppress the horrors of high school for the last six years, now I felt compelled to dredge them back up. *Sigh* I tried and tried and tried but could not remember. His name popped into my head the next morning, while I was in the shower. Damn. I wrote it with my finger on the fogged-up mirror over the sink before I forgot it. It was such a forgettable name. John James. My invisible stalker is John James.

I didn't have a high school yearbook with his picture in it, but for a fee, I could download one, and I did. When I saw his face, I remembered. Oh, shit. It was at Bridget's wild party senior year. We all played a kissing game, and at least half the guys at the party kissed me. As time passed, the kisses were supplemented with gropes. That was when I learned what extraordinary erogenous zones both my neck and my nipples were.

I hadn't worn a bra to the party in a moment of teenage risqué bravado, hoping its absence might help me land a boyfriend or something. After some extensive kissing and a lot of booze, boys would kiss me with their hands up under my blouse, and later my blouse was bunched at my neck. I managed to keep it on, but effectively I was topless, showing off my boobs to the entire party. It could have happened with anyone, but it happened when John James was kissing me and playing with my nipples. I had an orgasm that was obvious. It was obvious to me, obvious to John James, and obvious to most of the party.

It didn't help that my knees buckled and I collapsed to the floor in slow motion, sprawling in a way that was, shall we say, not ladylike. I accidentally provided the guys a lovely view of my upper thighs and even my lavender panties. I just lay on the floor in bliss, counting the ceiling tiles. Thank goodness I had worn my lavender panties, and also that they were clean!

The next week in school John James cornered me and told me I owed him an orgasm. I knew it was just JJ talking crazy and I dismissed it as an awkward attempt of him to be clever. After all, JJ (as he was known in high school) was a

bona fide

geek. He often talked crazy when he wasn't playing with his computer. Now six years later JJ is stalking me? That is so weird.

**

The mixer at the Yale Club was a good one indeed. The Yale men there truly seemed up for a party. I danced with everyone who asked me to dance, and that was quite a few men. As it got late, I was kind of monopolized by one guy, Andrew. Andrew was 27, which I told him was a perfect cube. "Good thing I'm not 25, then," he said.

"Why?" I naively asked.

"Because then I'd be a square," he replied. Well, let me tell you if anyone ever had told me I'd be making childish sexy math banter with a Yale hunk, I'd have laughed myself silly. Yet I was doing it.

Andrew, I learned, had spent two years in the Peace Corps, so even though he was three years older than me, we had largely overlapped in our years at college. As the party was ending, I decided to call Andrew out.

"That's a nice ring you're wearing. Cartier, isn't it?" I asked.

"Ring?"

"Yes, the one on the ring finger of your left hand. 18-karat gold, if I'm not mistaken?" I continued. "Rose gold, yellow gold, and white gold, intertwined."

"Uh, yes. Look, I can ..." he stammered.

"I don't mind. I've had fun flirting with you this evening. Now though you should go home to your wife," I said.

"She's in Singapore. Business trip," he said.

"So, you're alone, looking for some company?" He nodded yes. "You really are an asshole, aren't you?"

"Uh, yes, I guess so. Do you like assholes who try to cheat on their wives?" he countered, putting it all out there.

"It must be hard to cheat without a willing woman to help you out."

"It is indeed. Of course, there's always the ladies of the evening, but I'm not that type of guy."

"Of course you're not," I replied. "You're so much better than that. After all, you went to Yale."

"Well, it's been nice. You're really a lovely woman. You're the nicest Smith girl I've ever met, aside from my wife."

"Your wife is a Smithie?" I asked. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-four."

"And her maiden name, please?"

"Veronica Masters," he said. I knew it. I knew her and I hated her guts. I mean, my hate for her was extreme.

"Your place or mine?" I asked.

"Yours, please, if you don't mind."

"Do you have a car, or are we taxi bound? And don't you dare suggest Uber," I said.

"I wouldn't think of it. Anyway, I have a car. I'll ask the valet for it," he said.

"You do that. I'm going to freshen up."

Finally, finally, finally I'm going to get my revenge on that Masters bitch! Woohoo! Once in the ladies' room I jumped for joy. Ellie emerged from a stall, and I gave her the

Reader's Digest

version of what was going on.

"You're going to fuck him to take revenge on his wife? Can't you think of a better reason? She has a cheating husband, isn't that in and of itself enough of a revenge? No need to sully yourself," Ellie said.

"You don't understand. This is going to be fun, Ellie, and you yourself told me I need to get laid. This way I get laid, maybe have an orgasm or two if I'm lucky, and get sweet revenge. It's a hat trick!" I said, letting Ellie's attempt to slip some sense into my head gently float away.

Ellie and I emerged from the john together, and I introduced her to Andrew the Philanderer. Ellie sent me a text when Andrew (never call him Andy, please) and I were alone in the taxi. "He's gorgeous. Have a wild weekend, and may all your invisible stalkers disappear."

"He's now visible and his name is John James. I know him from high school," I texted back.

"May your visible stalkers become invisible!" she texted. "Is he related to Jesse James?"

I told her probably, continuing her tease, and I wished her a good night and to sleep well. After all, Jesse James married his cousin.

"May you get no sleep, you little tart," Ellie texted back. I giggled. Andrew was too polite (he's a Yalie, remember?) to enquire about my texting. Instead, he put his arm around me and scrunched me into himself, right there in the back seat of the taxi.

Andrew and I were wired. I introduced him to my roommate Franny. "He's my first married man, ever, can you believe it?" I said to her, right in front of Andrew, who actually blushed.

"My first married man was my father," Franny replied, totally deadpan and without missing a beat.

Andrew had a look of surprise and horror, but he joined us in laughter, "Franny likes to joke around," I explained, although I wondered, given how strange Franny was, if there wasn't some truth to what she said. Franny's from the South Bend region of Indiana, and that's Amy Coney Barrett country, so who the fuck knows?

Franny turned in for the night, but Andrew and I stayed up. He was going through my bourbon, as I gorged myself on edibles. Soon he was drunk and I was high. We began to kiss. Shortly after that, I was naked, and then we moved to my bedroom.

I didn't get the hat trick. I did get laid; I most definitely got laid. I got laid twice and a third time in the morning. I also got my sweet revenge. The revenge was even better because I learned that Veronica Masters' husband is lousy in bed. I only missed out on the orgasmic end of the equation. Not only did I not get two orgasms but I got none. I faked three of them, however, and Andrew was right pleased with his sexual prowess, since he had no idea I was faking it.

Well, this is why God in her wisdom gave us vibrators, I thought to myself. While Andrew snored away, I went online and ordered a dildo and a vibrator. Maybe I should send them as a gift, anonymously of course, to poor Veronica Masters? Hee, hee. Just joking, again. I'm going to keep them for myself, even if it takes them two days or more to arrive.

Thank goodness for full employment! All of Franny, myself, and especially Andrew had to leave bright and early Monday morning to go to work. Yes, Andrew had stayed the entire weekend, and that way I was able to try him out in bed while he was sober. He was still pathetic.

Maybe it's me? I let Franny take him for a spin Sunday night because she's a bit of an expert on men. She should be, given how many men she's gone through just while being my roommate! We've never shared a man before, but I saw this as simply more revenge on Veronica Masters! Franny is talented in bed, but even her talents could not raise Andrew's performance out of the miasma in which his bedroom talents dwell.

I had to leave first, and Andrew left with me, so he could get his customary morning fix at Starbucks. I guess our English breakfast tea just didn't do it for him. I told Franny to be sure to lock all three locks when she left, and she nodded yes, but was distracted as she did so.

As I walked to work I wondered if maybe Ellie had been right. I had been laid, several times, and while I never climaxed, it was still good, and reassuring, to once again feel a man's hard cock inside me. To have a man desire me and want to fuck me repeatedly. To make me submit to him, which he did, as I willingly submitted my body to him, any way he wanted it. It's true that all he wanted was plain vanilla sex or maybe you could even call it zero-fat-unflavored sex. It was sex though, and the type of sex that leads to pregnancy if one is not protected, and that's the ultimate kind of sex for a submissive woman -- not that I am one -- of course. As for me getting pregnant, science was my friend. My diaphragm protected my womb.