The Staler Who Stayed

A cyber security professional loses his job and finds himself living in his car, lonely, isolated and haunted by fantasies of claiming a woman by force.

At the end of his rope, he comes up with a desperate and diabolical plan: to take his long time stalking habit to the next level with a well-chosen home invasion and just settle in till economic times improve, giving him the opportunity to explore his desire for full control. All for the sweet girl's own good, of course.

In early chapters, it is all in his imagination, but in future installments those desires will demand to be made real.

Story Arc Themes:

~ dominance & submission, force & control, non-consent & reluctance ~

~fear & desire~

~ stalking, home invasion & hostage-taking ~

~ psychological dominance, mind control & behaviour modification ~

~ primal, predator-prey & pet-play ~

TRIGGER WARNING:

Caution: this story contains dark sexual themes that not everyone will like, including non-consent, force, stalking, mind control and behaviour modification.

If you are not already drawn to these fantasies, I recommend turning back and choosing a different story. I would not wish to warp your mind.

For those who do crave these extreme themes, here you will find:

Control, but not malice;

Force, but not extreme violence;

Violation, but not destruction;

And most importantly to me, affection and respect, rather than degradation and rejection.

My stories are intended to heal, not to harm.

For those whose minds, for whatever reasons, stray into dangerous terrain.

***

Chapter 2

Stockholm Syndrome.

That was the phrase on my mind when I woke at dawn in the fresh lakeside air.

Stockholm Syndrome.

It's an established fact: simply take control of a girl and you can make her fall in love with you. I would have to research how it's done.

I crawled out of my tent, stood up and stretched, revelling in the early morning bird calls and the stillness of the lake. Perhaps I should have felt troubled by my thoughts, but I wasn't. For the first time in weeks, I didn't want whiskey for breakfast. I was no longer aimless, rejected by society and skittering down the drain into depression. I was a man with a plan to get his needs met, a hunter on the trail of precious prey. I had made a decision, and it was the right one because I felt stronger and clearer than I had before. I had set out on the road to find my wild self; now he had taken over, and I was on my way home.

That road was deserted as I sped along it towards the closest town and I was in the best mood I'd felt for years.

I was happy with my sniffer programs, confident they would turn up prey worth catching. Maybe not this time, I would probably have to refine my criteria a few times before I homed in on the one I was looking for. I almost hoped I did. The hunt was singing wild in my veins, an ancient song buried too long, disused neurons firing up in my brain, shifting my entire perspective on the world around me.

This pursuit was aleady changing me, and I liked it. I felt alive again.

I drove into the two-bit town, scanning deserted streets. It was still early, but not that early. Must be a Sunday, I thought as I pulled in behind the library to hit up the free Wi-Fi. I connected and started to upload the code I'd written to my server.

The first concrete action of my hunt. My heart was thudding and I found myself scanning the alley in case anyone saw. Saw what? Some guy with his laptop open? I shook my head and laughed at myself.

Besides, I reassured myself, it was nothing that I hadn't done before. Not yet. I'd been crossing the line for years - no one admitted it, but I bet at least half the guys in my field use their skills to look at girls in ways they shouldn't. I'd been doing it for years, ever since I quit porn, when I realized that a high sex drive like mine combined with a porn habit was a disaster in the making and cut myself off. And started watching real girls instead.

Find me dancers, I would tell my sniffer programs. I thought of my code like bloodhounds, hunting dogs that I would train and send out to find me what I was looking for, unleashing them on the unsuspecting users of instagram. I replaced watching pornstars fuck with watching ordinary girls dance. Not professional dancers with their slick photos and polished moves, just the kind of girls who really knew how to move their bodies and posted their videos to insta to impress their friends. Late at night, when I was lonely, I would turn to them, these adorable, plausible girls-next-door, admiring their curves and imagining pushing that tank top up to expose the bouncy tits beneath, slipping her booty shorts off to her delightfully shocked expression, and throwing her on her bed to have my way with her. Pushing her legs apart and diving down between her thighs to sniff her, taste her, make her squeal.

Creepy it might be, but it was a lot healthier than porn, that was for sure, and filled a hole that casual dating and hook-ups couldn't. When a girl caught my eye I would... well, I would hunt her. Not that she would ever know. Violate, not her body, but certainly her privacy. Find out who she was, what her life was like. Check up on her to see what she was up to, track her movements. Jerk off over her photos and videos. Kind of like an internet girlfriend, I guess... except she didn't know I existed.

It didn't make me feel like a loser who couldn't get a girlfriend though, because I could've had a girlfriend, it just tended to involve a lot of boring crap I didn't have the patience for and a bunch of expectations that wore me down. As one girlfriend had told me on her way out the door: "You're a great lover, but as a boyfriend, you suck." So stick to what you're good at, I figured, and life was simpler when I did.

But something was missing, and developing a one-sided relationship with a pretty, vivacious girl filled that gap. More like a relationship, I guess, and getting myself off to fantasies starring a real girl was much more satisfying than having my chain jerked by scripted porn set-ups that only got more extreme over time. More innocent, even if my attentions did sometimes stray into the vicinity of not-strictly-legal.

But if a girl posts her videos to instagram, she wants the attention, right? That's what I told myself. She must want someone to watch, if she put herself out there. I was simply responding to her desire, wasn't I?

Ok, so she probably hadn't intended to attract the attentions of someone who would get into the back end of her online identity and find out everything about her, just as I would at work when profiling cat-fishers and credit card thieves. Study her, watch her, till she became larger than life in my fantasies.

I learned a lot about the relationship between the observer and the observed. At first I thought it was my imagination that my girl of the moment was flirting back at me, subconsciously aware of my gaze, but there were too many instances of changes in their behavior in response to my silent watching for the data guy in me to ignore. With every girl I had gone in deep with, I could prove it with statistics. In response to me, my girls posted more, got more flirty - and more attention from other guys, both online and in real life. Very weird.

But there was one event that both proved it to me beyond all doubt and made me much more careful about the quality of my attention. She was a cute blonde who caught my eye when she started posting videos of herself belly dancing, something she'd decided to do to fight back against what she called "fat-shaming", having had her gorgeous, biteable belly ridiculed throughout her teens by high school bullies. Honestly, it's insane how many beautiful girls have had their self-esteem trashed, and I always liked the idea that my silent worship of the women I watched would help them to feel as beautiful as they were, and it usually worked as they became more relaxed and confident on camera.

It worked this time too, and my cute blonde belly-dancer started to smile more and wear sexier outfits as I spent my evenings sinking my face into her softness, kissing and nibbling her till she giggled and shrieked at my ticklish touch. Her adorable smile and shy-but-sexy vibe drew me in and she became the star of my fantasies... until one night, when my fantasy got way hardcore. I had had a bad day, I can't even remember what had pissed me off but I had a lot of aggression to discharge. I was watching a gif I'd made of a few of her sexiest moves, alternating between x-rated images in my mind and the visual stimulation of her rippling flesh, and my thoughts turned dark.

My affectionate caresses of her soft flesh turned to an iron grip and, in my mind, I unleashed the beast in me. A beast this sweet, innocent girl would be completely unprepared to meet. I gripped her throat, relishing the terror in her eyes at the sudden switch in my behavior, and dragged her down into my kinkiest desires. Everything that would be shocking and unacceptable to an innocent mind like that. Choked her. Slapped her face. Pinned down her struggling form and forced her thighs apart to bite the delicate flesh of her inner thighs like the predator I was. Shoved my cock down her throat till she gagged, tears running down her face. Made her cry and beg me to stop, and I didn't, not till I came hard to the image of shoving it deep in her unwilling virgin ass.

Well, I had sure discharged my rage on her that night, descending into a hatefuck that she hadn't earned and wouldn't have wanted. Felt kind of dirty, like real dirty, not fun dirty, but I didn't think too much about it, just got the good night's sleep that would have otherwise eluded me, so what's the harm?

Except that. She stopped posting. Stopped posting there, stopped posting anywhere. Radio silence. After 3 days, I was feeling seriously uncomfortable. A few days later came the first major change in her behavior since I'd started watching her, and it was the worst sign. She'd booked a counselling appointment for the first time in 2 years. It had hit me like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind out of me and dropping my heart down a pit. I had fucked her up. I had hate-fucked her in my imagination, and she had felt it. I felt like the biggest piece of shit in the world.

I immediately deleted everything I had on her. Apologized to her out loud, just like I had complimented her out loud when I was luring her in. Told her she was beautiful and deserved much better than that, promised to leave her alone. Cut myself off from watching anyone for a while, worked my sexual frustration out at the gym instead. Like a real man, I told myself nastily. Because who does that? Watches a girl, knowing she can somehow sense it, pretending it's good for her self-esteem, then messes with her head so bad she needs to see a counsellor? When she could have absolutely no idea what had happened or why she was feeling bad, because she had no clue about my obsession with her. It tormented me for some time. No one likes to face the ugly parts of themselves.

After that I was much more strict with myself and took the process more seriously. I had proven to myself that these girls could feel my sexual attention, both for good and for the worse. I dialled back on the privacy invasions and steered clear of the shyer, self-conscious girls even though that's my favorite flavor, focusing on confident girls with badass, no bullshit attitudes. And I reined in my more extreme fantasies, or reserved them for girls with a history of interest in BDSM. I was careful. I had standards. I was determined to be a good influence on the girls I watched.

It was only after the lockdowns that the habit really crossed the line. I started exploiting weaknesses in my prey's security, accessing private photos, listening in when she was alone in bed getting herself off... it was way over the line, I admit it. But I was lonely and angry and it was the best way of relieving my stress I could find at the time. Trying to stay human, trying to stay connected to a world that I felt increasingly at odds with.

I did still set myself limits, though, trying to preserve my right to call myself an "ethical" hacker. Once the real slip-slide began, I switched my focus to girls from other countries. Not only could I not get to them with all the flights shut down, but I picked girls who didn't speak English, because I didn't feel so much like I was spying on them when I couldn't understand what they were saying, responding only to their body language, that primal, universal communication we all share. Italian girls with their sexy accents and musical laughter. Latinas with the kind of plump ass I always drool over. Arabic girls with sultry moves and dark, smokey eyes that promised to stab me in my sleep if I took it too far.

My illegal and unauthorized attention on them had got me through that difficult time, but I knew it was a dangerous habit, and the fact that these invisible, non-consensual relationships were the closest thing I had to an emotional connection was a big factor in deciding to chuck my old life down the toilet and hit the road in search of something better. It was unhealthy, I knew that, but it was just one symptom of a life that didn't work for me. So I assumed those desires would fade when I was free of the stultifying rat race that had consumed my life and drained me of my spark.

Now, sitting outside the library, uploading code that would kickstart a much more dangerous game, I knew that it was more than a symptom. It felt more like a calling. I had done it well, with good results for both myself and the girls I watched, the obsession usually ending when she got a boyfriend who was always - always, I had the data to prove it - a better catch than she'd ever dated before. And I had done it badly, impressing on me both the level of influence I had and the responsibility I bore to my targets.

I was ready to elevate my hunting habit to a whole new level, one that would get me what I really wanted. The stakes had never been higher, and I was not stupid enough to deny the risk to whichever woman my hunter's gaze eventually fixed itself on. Real risk. Real danger. My cock stirred and I laughed.

"Down boy," I said. I would have to be responsible about this, make sure I did it right, if I did it at all. I couldn't let my dick do all the thinking, even though it was certainly setting my direction.

Waiting for my code to finish uploading, I checked my email and took care of a few boring practicalities, then shut my laptop and headed to the local diner to take care of my simpler physical needs with a big pile of fluffy pancakes.

***

That night, in my tent, lulled by the crickets, I wondered about the girls being tracked by my sniffers. Where were they, who were they, what were they doing right now?

I had had a great afternoon fishing, finally able to clear my mind and think about something else now that I'd taken concrete action to make my plan real. The fish just couldn't leave me alone, a bite on my hook within minutes every time I cast. That had to be a good omen.

Satisfyingly full of campfire-fried fish, I felt relaxed and ease. I stretched my long frame out on my bedroll. I knew that what I was doing was serious, and seriously dangerous. But I had done dangerous things before; I had a lifelong habit of setting out on wilderness adventures that most wouldn't dare attempt, everyone I knew telling me: "You're crazy!", proving them all wrong and having the time of my life.

This was a different kind of wilderness adventure: a more dangerous one and a more compelling one. I knew that if I was going to attempt it at all, it would take a lot of sensible, rational thinking and worst-case-scenario planning. Serious fun requires serious work. But that would come later. This was the dreaming phase, and dreams don't want practical, sensible details. Dreams demand perfection.

So tonight I would allow myself to indulge in totally unrealistic thinking. A perfect scenario, with all the plausibility of a porno.

It's the morning after. I had spent the night wildly fucking her into a wet mess of surrender, pulling cries of pleasure from her in spite of herself before we collapsed in a tangle of exhausted limbs to sleep. I could imagine walking beside her, more closely entwined than I'd ever been with a woman. She was sleeping peacefully in my arms, a serene expression on her face, all her tension washed away by our night of unrestrained passion, her hair like a cloud over the pillow.

I pulled the sheet down to expose her full breasts and started tracing my fingers lightly across their curves. I wondered how long I could stimulate her before she woke. I had always wanted a relationship where I could wake her with sex in the morning, and now that I had established a relationship on my own terms, I could. I pressed my hardness against her thigh and pulled the sheet all the way down, exposing her to my gaze.

I took my time assessing my conquest in the morning light, my hungry eyes devouring every contour and detail of her beautiful body, claiming her with my eyes just as I had claimed her with my touch the night before. She was mine now, and I could do whatever I chose to do.

Very gently, not wanting to wake her too soon, I caressed the underside of her breasts, then trailed my fingertips downwards over the inviting curve of her soft belly. She was breathing evenly, not stirring, her lips slightly parted in a way that compelled me to lean close, just barely brushing her lips with mine. She shifted slightly against my body and sighed, but stayed asleep.

I smiled. It felt like I possessed her completely, waking and sleeping. My fingers found their way lower, into the soft tuft of hair between her legs, still wet from our shared passion the night before, then slid further down to tease her plump thighs apart. I traced circles on her inner thighs, larger circles, then smaller, then wider arcs again. Soon, she was arching her back slightly and, with a gentle sigh, her thighs fell open to my touch.

She wanted me. I had unlocked her, and now she was mine. I moved my body down, trickling barely-there kisses over her neck, down her chest, hovering my mouth just above her nipple, teasing her with my breath. As I breathed on it, her nipple puckered up for me. I grazed her skin with my lips and, moaning softly, she flexed, first her hips rising, then her breast rising to meet my mouth.

She wanted me. She wanted this. I slid my hand between her legs, cupping her pussy and resting my middle finger along the crease where her pussy lips met to conceal the treasure inside. Still asleep, she pushed her pelvis against my hand, her head twisting on the pillow, little "Mmmm" sounds escaping her open lips, lips that made my cock twitch with the thought of how many mornings I would be waking her with my hard erection nudging them apart for my morning blowjob.

But now, this first morning, was all about sating her with pleasure so her resistance would crumble and she would open herself to me fully.

I kept my hand on her pussy, soft and gentle, making her squirm towards me with desire, then whispered my lips in circles around her nipples, coaxing her nubs into full point. Her face and chest began to flush and her breath came faster. She was still unconscious, perhaps a little confused as her eyebrows furrowed at these unexpected sensations. But still her thighs lay open and inviting and she pressed herself into my waiting hand.

Now I brought my almost-kisses down from her breast, across the sensitive, ticklish skin of her stomach and belly, making her shiver. To her side, the delicate curve of her waist, down to the tip of her hip bone, where I placed a kiss, to claim it.

Sensing a change in her muscle tension, I looked up to see her eyes fluttering open prettilly through her long lashes. She seemed confused for a moment, then, suddenly remembering the night before, she blushed beet red and gasped. She tensed up, trying to pull away from me, but only succeeded in clamping her thighs between around my hand, inadvertently releasing a flood onto my fingers that gave away how much I aroused her.