The man sat at a corner table in the coffee shop surreptitiously eyeing off the woman sitting on a stool at bar. She was dressed in a navy blue suit; her jacket was open, revealing well-formed breasts swelling her white satin blouse, which opened to the second button so that a hint of lace bra was displayed. Her legs were crossed and her skirt had ridden up revealing most of her well-formed thighs atop long legs encased in sheer flesh-toned hose. He thought he could make out a subtle seam running up the back of one of her legs and she dangled a black patent leather spiked stiletto from one foot, exposing a reinforced nylon heel. He also thought that the top of her hosiery where it disappeared under her skirt was of a darker hue; most likely the shadow welt found on expensive stockings.
‘Slut! Sluts wear stockings! Sluts dangle their trashy ‘fuck-me’ high heels! Sluts like her wear too much makeup and show off their tits! Fucking slut! She deserves what she gets! They all do!’
His sick fevered brain was like a radio that he couldn’t turn off. Sometimes there was just static, sometimes he played music and sometimes the announcer ran a commentary like now, while he stared at the voluptuous middle aged woman.
“Slut!” he hissed.
It came out as an involuntary whisper and he quickly looked around to see if anyone had heard him say it. Sometimes he unconsciously regurgitated what the radio in his head was playing; more often these days than was safe. His thoughts once again turned to the elegant woman sipping coffee at the bar.
‘She’s a slut alright and she deserves what she gets!’ the psychotic commentator announced in his deranged brain.
He held up a newspaper to disguise his furtive surveillance of the woman. The headline banner proclaimed:
‘POLICE STILL STYMIED BY CHELMSFORD STALKER’
The story beneath read:
‘Police are asking members of the public to come forward with any information they may have that may assist them with their investigation into the man who has become known as The Chelmsford Stalker.
He is known to have committed six assaults over the last three months on middle-aged women who were home alone and police suspect there are other victims who have not come forward.
The victims are usually single, middle-aged, middle-class women; but in one case the woman’s husband was away on a business trip. The Stalker broke into the women’s houses and held them hostage overnight, repeatedly assaulting them then robbing them before tying them up and leaving. So far police have been unable to identify him by his DNA or fingerprints so they have determined he is not in their criminal databases.
“We need help from the public. This man will keep doing what he is doing until we catch him or until he moves on to commit similar crimes elsewhere,” Inspector Jean Burgess of Chelmsford CID said in a press interview this morning.’
(What the newspaper did not reveal was that the team of young detectives led by Inspector Jean Burgess derogatory called the perpetrator, ‘the MILF Fucker’ or ‘the Cougar Shagger’, in reference to the fact that all of the middle-aged victims were attractive, well dressed and in at least two cases, promiscuous.)
The story went on for three more columns; rehashing the previous crimes, dwelling on the known facts and speculating on the atrocities inflicted on the women. ‘If it bleeds - It leads’ as they say in the newspaper business.
The Chelmsford Stalker watched the woman; his trousers tented by a throbbing erection as his eyes flicked from her attractive face with those smoky eyes and ruby-red lips, to her heaving breasts, then down to her stunning legs.
‘The cunt is dangling that shoe on purpose! She wants you to look at her! She wants you to touch her! She wants you to fuck her!’ the radio assured him.
The Stalker’s radio began to play Midnight Rambler by the Rolling Stones and he quietly hummed the tune to himself as he stared at the woman.
Michele sipped her coffee enjoying being out and about dressed up to the nines. She had been a closet transvestite right up until her mid thirties and then become confident enough to go out dressed. She was now seldom dressed in drab, being single and living alone she could remain dressed enfemme ‘twenty four seven, three sixty five’, as people were want to say nowadays.
She never dressed conservatively. Why should she? She knew she looked stunning when she was dressed up, so why dress down? She liked the attention she drew and she didn’t mind the odd dalliance now and then either. With the right man of course. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she was a transvestite, quite passable with a convincing ‘Bonnie Tyler’ voice, but up close she could be clocked.
She had an idea that the man pretending to read the paper and humming to himself was checking her out. She had deliberately not pulled down the skirt of her business suit and was dangling her high-heel to tease him. He was not the only patron sneaking furtive glances at her either. She had smiled to herself when a balding man in his fifties sitting with a frumpy woman who was obviously his wife had received a whack around the head when his wife had caught him looking at her legs.
But her coffee was finished and to be honest, her well-formed arse was getting sore from sitting on the stool for nearly an hour. Besides she had places to be and things to do.
She made a show of putting the dangling heel back on her foot, sliding her calf along the other leg to lift her foot to where she could adjust the shoe. This caused her legs to open slightly and her skirt to ride right up revealing a V of silky white satin panty.
‘Just a tasteful glimpse, ‘ she thought to herself and smiled when ‘baldy’ got another clip across the ear, and she, a baleful glare from his missus.
She alighted from the stool with dignity however, straightened the hem of skirt, (she thought about straightening the seams of her stockings but that would be too much) picked up her purse and strode confidently across the room, heels click-clacking on the polished wooden floor.
The Chelmsford Stalker had not missed the panty-peek and in fact probably would have ejaculated into his underpants if she had kept it up much longer. Not that it would have affected his libido; he seemed to be almost constantly erect and capable of sex immediately after finishing off. How many times had he fucked that last bitch? At least eight? ‘They moan that they don’t want to and that it hurts but they want it. All the sluts want it!’ he thought.
‘She wants it! She showed me her knickers on purpose! She needs a good fucking! Fucking stuck up cunt! Let’s see how likes it when I put it in her!’ the radio played a familiar tune.
A handsome forty-something man wearing a grey pinstriped business suit alighted from the corner table. He carried his newspaper in front him, hiding his erection, and made his way to the cashier and dropped a five pound note on the counter.
The cashier was in her early twenties and thought the man was strikingly handsome; sort like Pierce Brosnan at his prime. She smiled at him and he smiled back.
‘Dozy cow! Too young! Give her another twenty years and I’ll bend her over the counter and stick it in her hard!’ the radio voiced.
“Thank you very much, please keep the change,” his accent was refined with a deep timbre.
“Thank you sir,” the cashier grinned back at him.
The Stalker exited the coffee shop and searched the street; the woman was striding purposely towards a small BMW. ‘That’s the sort of car that that stuck up bitches drive! Bitch cars! Cunt cars!’ the radio played in his head.
He picked up the pace and caught another glimpse of her elegant, sheer- stockinged clad legs as she folded them into the small coupe. ‘See! She’s showing it off again! She wants it! She deserves it!’
Michele drove home carefully through the evening traffic, thinking about what she was going to wear tonight when she went out to one of the local bars. Something sexy, something exciting! She was in the mood to trap an eligible admirer and lure him home for some ‘slap and tickle’ as she liked to call it. She didn’t notice the late model Audi following her.
Parking the car in the driveway she let herself into her modest but tidy house. She lit a cigarette and poured herself a glass of Shiraz kicking off her heels, relaxing before she would shower, redo her makeup and change before going out for the evening. She was in no rush; she had no intention of arriving at any of the tranny-friendly venues in Chelmsford until ten, maybe eleven o’clock.
The Chelmsford Stalker drove past her door as she parked.
“Stuck up cunt in a stuck up house - we’ll see how stuck up she is when I stick this up her,” the Stalker said to himself, his handsome face lit by the dashboard lights.
His radio did not disagree and began playing Helter Skelter as a theme in tune with his diseased thoughts.
He parked a street away under a blown out streetlight providing the gloom and darkness he needed to succeed in his evening’s endeavours. He walked confidently back down the street until he was two doors away for the bitch’s house. A handsome refined man dressed in a good suit did not draw undue attention; most people thought of potential rapists as being furtive young men in hoodies.
.... There is more of this story ...