Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, NonConsensual, Heterosexual, MaleDom, Rough, Humiliation, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Slow, Violent,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - You're a sheriff's deputy in a small southern town. How do you deal with a wealthy sociopath who's traveling under the radar?
Thursday, June 17, 7:18 p.m.
He spotted her the moment he entered the huge discount store. She was tall -- only an inch or two under six feet -- and her legs, encased in loose-fitting cuffed shorts, were long and slender. This little city, he had observed, had more than its share of lovely young women, but this one, ah, God. This one was superb.
She was pushing a cart and, it appeared, moving aimlessly about the store. Her cart contained an unidentifiable item of crumpled fabric, toothpaste and cosmetics, a large box of 35 mm film, and a generous bag of birdseed. As he arrived, she was crossing in front of the women's clothing aisles, just behind the checkout counters, and was moving into the interior. From the contents of her cart, he could tell that she had earlier visited the same part of the large store where she now was headed.
Pushing an empty cart, he followed at a discreet distance.
"Look at me," he thought, bemused. "Walking about in Middle America's favorite discount store, trolling for women!"
It wasn't unfamiliar behavior for the patrician, 58-year-old investment banker. He had been engaged in similar conduct for more than four decades. Only the setting had changed. The upscale retail establishments of faraway Westchester County and Manhattan had been supplanted by this small-town chain store on the thinly populated North Carolina coastal plain. Instead of the backdrop of expensively dressed matrons carrying shopping bags from Saks or Nordstroms, he now observed overweight, potato-fed farm women in faded polyester shorts.
His avocation, during his long and successful career in New York, had now become his full-time occupation.
Christopher Louis Phelps was enjoying his new life to an inordinate degree. He was spending all of his considerable free time drinking in the experience of women. "Girl-watching," was the casual, juvenile-sounding term for it. "Birding," he'd heard it called, years ago. People often employed these lighthearted phrases, or supplanted them with more clinical or contemptuous ones: Voyeurism. Peeping. Many people, perhaps most, regarded immoderate interest in the bodies of women to be a perversion.
Phelps was aware of all the terms, all the attitudes. None of the terms, to his mind, was adequate to describe the activity. As to the prevailing public attitudes, he cared not at all, and he experienced no guilt. On the contrary, Christopher Louis Phelps was a remarkably complacent, altogether self-satisfied man. He was absorbed in his own pursuit of pleasure, and was not even occasionally self-critical. His firm belief was that anything he chose to do, or to be, was -- quite by definition -- desirable and entirely correct.
A wealthy man with no need to earn another penny to live comfortably for a lifetime, Christopher Louis Phelps recently had dropped out of society. He had left New York, virtually unannounced. His legal affairs, his fortune, were being managed by a small cadre of experts, only a handful of whom even knew where Phelps could be contacted. What few friends he had in New York or elsewhere had been told, vaguely, that he would be in Europe for an indefinite period.
Phelps was not in hiding. A good private detective
-- perhaps even a bad private detective -- could have located him within a week, had there been anyone disposed to track him down. But Christopher Phelps had systematically swept away all his routine contacts with the past. He was practicing something that he had dreamed of for years: abandonment of all social and professional contacts. Absolute freedom. The times, the people, the places that had made up his life all had, quite deliberately, been forsaken. His lawyer had instructions to hold his mail until notified where to send it; his accountant sent his generous pre-arranged living allowance to the lawyer on a monthly basis, for his holding or sending.
Outside intermediaries had arranged the purchase of his smallish but comfortable cabin cruiser, and Phelps had taken possession of it and sailed from Camden, N.J., several weeks earlier. The boat was carefully chosen for features that made it as convenient as possible for one individual to operate alone. It was comfortable, even luxurious, but not ostentatious: Christopher Phelps, after all, was not interested in calling attention to himself.
Currently, following a leisurely cruise down the intracoastal waterway, the boat was docked at the marina adjoining Twin Rivers, North Carolina's best riverfront hotel. The small, historic old city was an easy run upriver from the coast.
There were no children to wonder where he had gone; there were no close friends from his past to seek him out. Christopher Phelps was an upscale recluse; an unannounced new resident of Twin Rivers these past three weeks. No one except a real estate agent and the hotel clerk so much as knew his name.
He had purchased a large, somewhat run-down estate alongside the larger of the town's two rivers. The house, an imposing brick structure more than 70 years old, was buried deep in the trees on four acres of fenced ground. East of the little city, the house was far away from the old route to the ocean, a road long-since replaced by a modern four-lane highway that ran parallel and a half-mile to the southeast. It was a beautiful old house, but it was in great need of repair. Through intermediaries, Phelps had arranged for a leading local contractor to conduct an elaborate, carefully prescribed program of reconditioning.
In the meantime, he had the hotel, his boat, and complete freedom from responsibilities.
Phelps was a loner, but he didn't avoid public places; on the contrary, he regularly sought them out. He was a dedicated voyeur; he accepted the term. He knew also, however, that he was no pervert. He considered himself a man with a refined appreciation of the female sex. Because he always had derived enormous pleasure from this condition, Phelps could hardly regard it as a problem or a deviation. Quite deliberately, he had arranged his life in such a way as to provide himself maximum opportunity to indulge in this most favored of pastimes.
And Christopher Phelps was no "girl" watcher. Teen-age girls with their tight, perfect bodies might merit an appreciative glance -- no more. They were beautiful, to be sure, but they were, after all, only children. Phelps' eyes sought out mature women, whose bodies and whose character had been fully realized; women who had been around long enough to experience, perhaps, even a small degree of physical decline, but who had not begun to show it -- or women whose minimal physical decline manifested itself in interesting ways.
In truth, Christopher Phelps was a stalker, although he never thought of himself in that way. He knew that it was of critical importance to be circumspect. He was acutely aware that an active, aggressive voyeur, once detected, could be a target for ridicule, arrest, or worse. Phelps regarded himself as more than merely prudent; he was, he thought, the epitome of caution and care; a true master of his craft.
Frequently, Phelps had observed with amusement and disdain the clumsy voyeurism of other men. Many stared, goggle-eyed, at attractive women they passed in shopping malls and grocery stores. These men seemed to him barely able to contain their drooling tongues in their open mouths.
Phelps empathized with the women who were the objects of these mens' attention. But he was not one of these poor, unattractive creatures. No woman could know that he followed her, watched her, Phelps believed. Not unless he wanted her to know.
Surprisingly, wonderfully, on occasion he could indulge his pleasure openly. Quite frequently, Phelps had encountered women who welcomed the subtle attentions of men's eyes. The "fifteen percent," he called them, half-seriously, having long-ago arrived at the private estimate that a substantial minority of attractive women -- perhaps one in seven -- sought out opportunities to display their bodies to men in public. He assumed that these women achieved some measure of satisfaction--some thrill--from their behavior. He hoped that they did. He welcomed it, and loved them for it.
Whenever Phelps became certain that he had come upon such a woman, he would modify or eliminate entirely the usual subtlety of his observations, shifting his attitude to match his best appraisal of how the woman wanted to play the game. If the occasion seemed to call for it, he would follow a woman through a public place with no serious effort to remain discreet. He would respond to her lead: There could be eye contact, the exchange of glances, even knowing smiles.
Such moments were delicious, and such women were a rare treat. But not so very rare.
Unlike the timid behavior often attributed to the classic voyeur, Phelps was not in the least reluctant to make direct contact with women he met in this manner. In New York, on rare occasions, he had become acquainted with some of the more forward of these women, had taken them to dinner, even dated them. Twice, he had taken such women to bed.
"Hardly the actions of a pervert," Phelps reflected, a little bitter at the judgments society had made of his lovely vocation.
There had, however, been the others; women who had encouraged his interest in unmistakable ways, had led him on, teasing him intolerably. Provocative behavior was thrilling, delicious; but those who promised everything and delivered nothing were not playing the game fairly.
Such women deserved to be punished.
The beautiful young woman that Phelps now trailed through the Wal-Mart at a careful distance showed some promise of being one of the treasured fifteen percent: her manner was self-confident and breezy. Her clothing was abbreviated and mildly suggestive. The loose-cuffed, Forties-style shorts on her long, beautiful legs were of ordinary cut and color, and not unduly revealing, but her taut, tanned midriff was defiantly bare, and the purposefully tacky, light green t-shirt top she wore was daringly cut, only inches below her breasts. The flimsy fabric was suspended from them and hanging freely away from her midriff.
Her breasts were not large, but Phelps' experienced eye told him that she wore nothing beneath the T-shirt. Unlike most of the loveliest of the local girls, this was no eighteen-year-old college freshman. This was a grown-up woman in her absolute prime. Phelps estimated that she might be in her early thirties. Truly, this dark-haired beauty was a treasure.
He closed the distance between them slightly, only infrequently looking in her direction.
The woman glanced toward him once when Phelps, well-back, turned to follow her into a narrow aisle containing stationery and home/office accessories. She seemed to take little notice of him, and continued down the aisle to a display of spiral notebooks. She was near the end of the aisle. Phelps halted, twenty feet away, pretending to inspect the merchandise on the opposite side.
There was a silent moment. The woman, fully erect and partially turned away from him, again looked back, this time deliberately catching his eye briefly. Turning away again, she reached high above her head in an effort to retrieve a large spiral notebook from the uppermost shelf. The T-shirt raised itself precariously close to the undersides of her breasts, now fully raised and defined. She stood on tiptoe, the muscles in her legs and buttocks visibly tightening as, arms fully extended, she strained to pull the notebook from its place. The expanse of exposed midriff was now very great.
Phelps felt his pulse quicken. His heart pounded. Outwardly, however, his demeanor remained entirely calm. He would not allow himself to stare at the girl. He looked away, then back again, as casually as he could manage. Until he was certain of her, there would be no overt reaction on his part. But he had seen, he had seen.
He was almost certain, now, that this woman was no guileless innocent.
Moments later, all doubt was removed. The spiral notebook, so strenuously sought, was unceremoniously discarded on a lower shelf. She pushed her cart to the end of the aisle and turned to her right. A young man pushing a cart in the opposite direction passed her, and looked back appreciatively.
Phelps followed, quickly, confidently. There was little reason for caution now. Most assuredly, she was a Player.
Now she stopped again, this time idly examining an endless display of nuts, bolts, and fasteners in hundreds of small plastic cartons. It was a short aisle, near the center of the store. It would have been impossible for Phelps to observe her without appearing obvious.
He observed her. He was obvious.
The woman knew that he stood there -- just down the aisle.
He knew that she knew.
Turning away from him, she suddenly bent forward from the waist, reaching toward the bottommost shelf with one long, bare arm. Phelps fleetingly marveled to himself at this peculiar posture--one he had seen often in women. Seldom, if ever, he thought, had he observed a man bending fully from the waist without using his knees. Women -- whether or not seeking to be provocative -- seemed to assume this posture with some frequency. In this instance, there was no doubt in his mind; the posture was intended to be provocative.
It was. The T-shirt promptly and predictably fell away from the woman's chest, revealing the soft roundness of the undersides of both breasts. He had been right: there was no undergarment. Her breasts were small but beautifully formed. She rummaged about in the debris of discarded packets of nuts and bolts, unhurried, holding the pose. Phelps saw her tiny, darkened, only-slightly distended nipples, and the large, light-pink aureoles surrounding them. He was shocked: They were the breasts of a young girl, almost virginal in appearance. He wondered if he had overestimated her age.
The moment lingered. He made no attempt to look away, to appear not to have noticed. In his mind's eye, he photographed the exquisite moment, knowing he would remember it. He waited. There was no one there to observe him. He stared, unabashed.
At last, still facing away from him, she raised her upper body and stood erect. The T-shirt dutifully fell back into place and the woman, without a glance in his direction, pushed her cart out of the aisle. He followed.
A few feet away, both of them now in one of the store's major passageways, she stopped, turned, looked directly at Phelps and smiled sweetly. Their little episode, her expression said, had been mutually satisfying, but now it was at an end. She turned and pushed her cart away, and he gave her some distance before following at a slower pace.
When it became clear that she was preparing to check out her purchases, Phelps turned and retraced his steps, leaving the store through the garden department. He hurried to his rented Buick near the front entrance.
There, he waited for her.