The Beast In Control Ch 2

The story you are about to read is a continuing work of total and pure fiction. The names do not refer to any actual persons, living or deceased. As a work of fiction, the content is not intended to be considered, viewed or understood as an actual plan or attempt to commit the deeds described. This work is designed for the reading pleasure of consenting adults and should not be read if the idea of non-consensual sexual contacts offend.

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"Targeting" is a phrase often used these days in business (target audience), in education (target course or degree) and in medicine (target reaction), but my own use of the term had no such legitimate connotation. The women described earlier had actually become my targets. They were now being hunted. They were sought after by a hunter who would not give up until his quarry had been brought to ground and subdued. They were 'in my sights' so to speak. And I began to close in on them, one by one. There was, truthfully, no escape; but only I was aware of that fact. They were blissfully ignorant. Realizing I had all the time in the world made it ever so much easier for me to actually make the 'kill' when the most propitious moment presented itself.

Sixteen months. Sixteen very long, very involved months. Sixteen months of following. Sixteen months of observing. Sixteen months of stalking and spying, if you will. Sixteen full months of filling notebooks with work schedules, leisure activities, restaurant and shopping preferences, names of acquaintances and their addresses and their schedules as well. When I made my move, I wanted no interference from inaccurate timing. My plan unfolded as the months stretched behind me. The nuances of my revenge began to heat up, simmer and eventually reached a boil just before Labor Day of this year. I was now ready. I often wondered if they were.

In continuing this tale, I need not describe the innumerable days, evenings and nights that I spent in secluded places, cars, buses, parks, stores, restaurants, bars, clubs and even churches observing the idiosyncrasies of my five targets. Allow it to suffice that I learned many otherwise-unobservable things about each of them. I spent countless hours in computer research detailing everything they had purchased, every site they had visited, every tiny crack in their otherwise normal facades. It is truly amazing what a person will tell another on the telephone when the caller professes to be a representative of a particularly well-known research and polling organization. Their personal existences were no longer personal, except that they had no idea of this condition. I knew as much about them as they did, themselves.

Night vision goggles and an aptitude for climbing fences and trees provided views of the private areas of their homes and apartments that anyone else could not hope for. Physical abilities honed in private on my own personal training machines provided for stealth and secrecy when observing them outside their homes. Copies of outdated CIA/FBI training manuals obtained through the Freedom of Information Act delivered techniques and procedures for following them so they suspected absolutely nothing over that long span of time. There were times when I was within six feet of them and they never knew I was anywhere present. The lengths to which I went in learning to observe behavior and compile statistics were most likely unmatched outside of the covert operations theater. I actually became good at what I was doing.

One particular incident that bears re-telling here involves Miss Ramada, the English teacher I spoke of earlier. I had been watching her for more than a month at that particular moment and knew her routines quite well, simply because they were routine. She rarely did anything differently at any time of the month. Each day was exactly like that same in the previous week. But one Friday morning as I was watching from my hiding spot, I noticed she took extra effort in cleaning up her kitchen, picking up everything that had been strewn about the night before, and even changed the sheets on her bed – something she had never done on a Friday before. She checked the contents of her refrigerator and cupboard several times before she left for work. I searched my notes for some clue as to what might make her change her routine so drastically. I had watched her do her regular shopping the evening before and nothing seemed amiss at that point. She had spoken to several people in the local market, as she always does. Most of them were lily-white liberals from the suburbs who most likely figured it was politically correct to engage one of the few black customers in some sort of conversation. To her credit, Miss Ramada never allowed what were probably her true feelings, to show on her face. She was polite and cordial to everyone who spoke to her. But, yes, there it was; she had spoken to a stranger in the store – a very large black man had approached her near the produce bins and had engaged her in conversation for some ten or twelve minutes. How had I missed that? Stupid! A drastic change in her routine! Had she invited him to her apartment? For what purpose? She never dated. She never went out with anyone, except two other teachers from the English department on their bi-weekly payday excursion to a local Italian eatery. This was worth looking into.

Within three minutes of the time she left her apartment for CHS, I was inside, searching for the smallest of clues that might point me in the direction of what had caused this alteration of my quarry's routine. It was not my eyes that found the clue, it was my nose. Within minutes I noted a strong aroma of a spicy nature and followed the lead of my olfactory sense to the large crock-pot on the counter in the kitchen. I could see through the glass lid that Miss Ramada had prepared a rather large quantity of a red sauce. Carefully lifting the lid, I sniffed the simmering concoction and was actually quite surprised. Miss Ramada rarely cooked on her own. She was a slave to the microwave-style quick meals that so very many companies have dropped into our collective laps. I quickly replaced the lid and took a peek into the trashcan at the other end of the counter. Ahhh, I was not disappointed. Three large, empty jars with the labels boasting a nationally known brand of 'roasted peppers and mushrooms' pasta sauce lay at the bottom of the can. She did not prepare the sauce; she had simply opened the jars. So much for the mystery of how I had missed all that preparation.

I checked the refrigerator to find two large bags of pre-prepared Italian Mix salad greens alongside a large-size bottle of Robusto Italian dressing. Smiling, I turned to survey the rest of her kitchen. There it was! The key to all of this was the appearance of two bottles of a rather decent California Merlot on the counter in the corner where it meets the walls. I could not have seen this from my vantage point. She was going to entertain. Would it be the large gentleman I observed her speaking to yesterday at the market? This would take some thought.

This was not the first time I had been here. I reminisced about the fact that I have visited the apartments and homes of each of my targets several times in the past sixteen months. Entrance was ridiculously easy and I have always been careful not to disturb anything in the process of investigating, so no one has ever suspected that anything was amiss. I do suppose it is apropos of me to provide a bit of confession here. Yes, I have sneaked into the targets' bedrooms; and, yes I have gone through bureau drawers and closets to find what sort of underwear and lingerie they wear; and, yes I have often masturbated with some of the more silky or lacy items I have found; but I have never removed anything from any of their residences. That would have been too chancy. I have found teddies that would shock the general public if they knew their elected officials and educators were wearing them under their otherwise demure outer clothing. I have located panties that amounted to nothing more than a tiny triangle connected by a few silken strings. I have seen items that are euphemistically called 'marital aids' in all of the targets' homes except for Miss Ramada. Vibrators of extremely varied lengths and girths; dildos of different colors, textures and sizes; leather apparel designed to titillate even the dullest libidos – all these are the property of four of the five who are destined to be my partners in a grand experiment in the very near future. But I can keep a secret. And I have, until now.

Bringing myself back to the present and the chore at hand, I wondered how I might defuse the evening to cause Miss Ramada some of the embarrassment and perhaps discomfort that I had experienced at her hands over the years. I needed to return to my own lodging quickly to secure the proper tools, but the plan was already formulating in my mind and had nearly reached its conclusion as I climbed down the service elevator shaft to leave through the basement.

It was not even an hour later that I found myself back in her kitchen with the equipment I needed to set up the scenario for the evening. I have not gone into any specific detail as to my sources of supply for some of the items I shall describe in this missive, because there is some question of the legality of some of the things I have obtained as well as the manner in which they were obtained. I did have two very good friends through the past few years, but who would rarely ever consent to being seen with me. One was a middle-aged hooker with quite a large chemical dependency, which I could assist her with in return for her 'favors.' She never once commented on my appearance and did her job well enough that I found it quite acceptable to pay her more than she was worth. Through her contacts I had easy access to any manner of chemical compounds that would serve my purposes quite well. In my hand right now was a vial of liquid Seconal and two hypodermic needles with syringes. I had read enough to understand the hypnotic, sleep-inducing properties of Seconal and reasoned that it would fit into my plan for the evening almost as if it were so designed. Nearly half the bottle went into the large crock-pot of sauce and was stirred in with a large slotted spoon, which I washed thoroughly and returned to its place in the jar next to the stove. The other half of the bottle was divided between the two bottles of Merlot, introduced by the hypodermic needles through the corks. A gentle tilting of the bottles mixed the liquids and my job was nearly finished.

I checked the entire apartment again, this time paying close attention to the bathroom, where I found a brand-new tube of KY jelly on the vanity, and the bedroom where I noted Miss Ramada had laid out her beautiful yellow peignoir set. This set was one of my favorites. I had only seen her wear it twice before – both times when she had been alone and had drunk a bit too much of the Bailey's she keeps beneath the sink. I sniffed the material and was surprised to learn it had not been laundered since the last time I saw her wear it. I could still smell her musky, dusky scent in it. I lifted the panties and crumpled them against my face before I even realized what I was doing. I inhaled and the world seemed to stand still. The aroma of a woman aroused leaped into my nose and screamed its way into my brain. My penis began to grow at an uncomfortably rapid rate and I knew I was in trouble. Rushing to the bathroom with the panties still at my nose, I stepped into the tub and loosed my thickening male member from the confines of the sweatpants I was wearing.

I never cease to be amazed at what I see when I look down at myself. While I am not large by any means – I measure in at just a small fraction less than seven inches – the sight that strikes me is the amount of hair that covers my shaft. Not the normally present pubic hair, but long, golden-brown strands of soft hair cover the entire length of my penis. Only the head, bulbous and purple when pulled from my uncut foreskin, is devoid of hair. I know the hooker I spoke of earlier has always been fascinated by this uncommon occurrence and has often commented on it.

To continue, I stood there in the tub and masturbated passionately with Miss Ramada's panties jammed against my nose and into my mouth where I sucked and licked at their contents much as a man starved for moisture licks an ice cube for liquid nourishment. I was rewarded with her musky, tangy taste inside my mouth just as I reached my climax and spurted my heated seed down toward the drain in the tub. I shuddered at the rapidity with which I had reached my peak and replaced myself in my pants. I carefully stepped out of the tub and turned on the shower to wash down any remnants of my being there – both the semen itself, and any stray hairs that might have been shed during my moment of passion.

Leaving the bathroom, I spread the panties back on the chair where I had found them; certain that the crotch would dry sufficiently by the time Miss Ramada had need of them this evening.

I made one last circuit of the apartment, making certain I had retrieved everything I had brought with me and that nothing was amiss or out of place, and I slipped out the door and retraced my steps of earlier that day. The thoughts in my mind were leaping over each other trying to get to the front of my imagination.

What would the evening bring? How would my plan work out?