The Pantyhose Stalker – Part One
Disclaimer: The author does not condone nor encourage forced sex. This story is purely fictional and is a segue into the darker part of the human psyche where forced sex fantasises dwell. The author also does not condone non-consensual or physically forced sex, but acknowledges that men and women do have these fantasises. I certainly do; and I sometimes act them out in real life in my female persona when dressed as Michele. In fact as a transvestite I identify more with the female characters in my stories than I do the male. That said, being bisexual, I am turned on by both the male and female characters; and of course my nylon fetish is self-evident.
Michele Bouvier sat in the carriage of the subway train pretending that she was engrossed in her notebook computer. She was in fact very aware that she and the man sitting a little further down the carriage were alone in the rattling subway car. The man had been staring at her throughout the journey and she was very nervous.
Michele didn’t normally use the subway and never used it late at night. This morning her car had failed to start and her husband couldn’t get it going for her. He was in a hurry because he had to get to an important meeting so Michele had agreed to take the subway to work. She had planned to leave work early and get home while it was still light.
Michele Bouvier was a mid-level executive at a publishing firm. Working in sales, she liked to take care of her appearance. She was forty-four and loosing the battle of the bulge. Although not exactly fat she was large framed and carried a few too many pounds; they had piled up on her breasts, which she didn’t mind so much, and on her ass and thighs which she hated.
She was always well dressed, usually in a business suit, blouse, hose and heels; well coiffured, she had recently had crimson highlights subtly streaked through her brunette bob, and she always wore lots of makeup.
She knew that the younger women on the staff sniggered at her behind her back; they took advantage of the recently introduced relaxed dress code and wore slacks, skirts, dresses, low-heels or flats and hardly ever wore hosiery and very little makeup. Michele was smart enough to realise that if she dressed that way she would look frumpy. She kept to her sophisticated look and knew that some of the men liked the way she dressed, but more importantly, her dress style helped to hide her flaws.
She was wearing a grey pinstriped business suit, skirt and jacket combination. She wore a dark green satin blouse, black high-heeled sandals and expensive taupe control-top pantyhose. She was sophisticatedly accessorised with gold jewellery, earings and watch, red-painted fingernails and toenails and plenty of makeup.
At about four-thirty in the afternoon she was called to an impromptu sales meeting and in the heat of the drawn out discussions she forgot all about not bringing her car to work. By the time she boarded her train it was after nine pm.
At first Michele didn’t think too much about having to ride the train; she was busy transposing her hand written notes into her notebook computer; working on the report she would have to table tomorrow. In a way this was better than driving; at least she could work!
Then she noticed that the carriage had emptied and she was in the carriage alone with the intense-looking man wearing a Hoodie who seemed to be staring intently at her; but whenever she looked up he averted his face.
He stared covertly at the matronly women dressed in the business suit; her perfume drifted across to him and he felt his cock become erect in his pants. This woman was just to his taste: sophisticated, nice suit, satin blouse, sheer hosiery and high-heeled sandals that showed off her painted toenails through the gauzy nylon of her sandal-toe pantyhose. She was attractive, a little heavy but he didn’t mind that, and she wore lots of makeup. Rep lips, pink and blue eyeshadow, rouge; black eyeliner and mascara accentuated her pretty hazel eyes.
He wanted her and his luck was in; it looked like she was getting off at the station where he laid his trap.
One stop away from her station Michele closed down her notebook and dropped it into her black leather shoulder bag. She flipped open her cell and debated whether she should call home and ask her son or daughter to pick her up from the station. They shared an old clunker that she normally wouldn’t be seen dead in, but tonight it might be better to be picked up in a clunker than to wait for a cab. She flipped the phone closed; she was being paranoid!
She stood up and held onto the post next to the door aware that the man was ogling her. Somewhere deep inside her psyche she kind of liked the idea that a young man could find her attractive but her conscious mind was relieved when the train finally stopped and the door opened.
Michele stepped off the train and strode purposely down the almost deserted platform, her high-heels, clicking and clacking on the bitumen floor the sound echoing off the tiled walls. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw a shape coming up from behind her. She flinched and was about to cry out when the man in the Hoodie jogged past her and disappeared around the corner towards the escalators.
She breathed a sigh of relief; he was just another subway rider in a hurry to get home.
The man in the Hoodie unlocked the door to the workshop set into the tiled wall near the escalators. He knew that the maintenance crew had long gone home but he also knew that the subway cops would check the door when they made their regular rounds so the clock was ticking. He slid inside the brightly lit, but dusty workshop and closed the door leaving it open just crack so could see the approaches to the escalator. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a nylon stocking and pulled it over his head. He adjusted it so that the little hole he had cut in the stocking fitted around his lips. He liked to use his mouth on his victims.
Michele turned the corner and smiled; there was the bank of escalators clattering away and she could hear the sounds of other passengers and vendors in the concourse stalls at the top of the escalators. The smells of hamburgers, hotdogs and pretzels wafted down to the platform and Michele’s stomach rumbled.
She was berating herself for even thinking about a eating a hotdog as she walk purposely toward the up escalator when a hand reached out of nowhere and dragged her through a door that had suddenly opened. By the time she realised what was going on she was pushed hard up against a filthy workbench. The edge of the workbench dug painfully into her ample buttocks, and the man held a knife under her neck; his face was distorted by the stocking mask he wore over his head. The only part of his face she could make out was his full lips where the stocking had been cut.
“Shut the fuck up! One sound and I’ll bury this knife in your throat! Do you understand?” the man hissed, his face close enough that she could smell his breath.
Michele nodded and a single tear ran down her face leaving a black trail of mascara. The man took Michele’s bag off her shoulder and put it on the bench.
“We’ll look in there later; time for some fun first,” he said, more to himself than Michele.
He spun the woman around so that her big butt rested against his crotch and moved the point of the knife to the side of her neck
“Don’t fight; don’t scream, don’t make a sound!” he hissed.
The man bent the buxom woman over the workbench and kicked her heels apart. Her skirt stretched tight across her ample backside. He slid a hand under her skirt and stroked her leg from calf to thigh, revelling in the luxurious feel of her silky pantyhose. He pressed the handle of the knife into the gusset of her panties and pushed; the fabric of Michele’s panties and hose was pushed partly inside the lips of her sex.
“You are gonna get stabbed bitch! Either by this,” he jiggled the handle of the knife in her quim.
“Or this,” he pushed his engorged member against her butt.
Michele could feel the large lump of the man’s erection rub against her.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she begged.
“Wise decision bitch!” he sneered.
“Open your legs!” he ordered kicking at her heels but they couldn’t open any wider.
“I can’t. This skirt is too tight,” Michele sobbed.
“I can fix that,” he snarled.
He grabbed the hem of Michele’s skirt either side of the kick-pleat and viciously pulled the fabric apart. Michele’s skirt split at the back-seam and parted like a curtain; the two halves of her skirt hung from her waist framing her legs. She was wearing her panties over her pantyhose.
“Mag-fucking-nificent!” he whistled.
The large globes of Michele’s ass-cheeks stretched the fabric of her red satin full-cut panties tight across her buttocks. The material seemed to shimmer in the harsh light of the overhead fluorescent lights. Michele was wearing expensive sheer pantyhose with a control top to hold in her tummy and to slim her thick thighs. The control top material was a few shades darker than the legs of her pantyhose but it was shiny and soft.
Neither Michele’s panties nor pantyhose had a cotton gusset so she wore a thin panty-liner. It was now firmly wedged inside her cunt from when the man had pushed the handle of the knife inside her labia.
The man kicked Michele’s heels again until her legs were stretched wide. He loved women with big asses and long legs and most of all he liked women who wore sheer hose and satin panties. He placed the knife on the workbench tantalisingly close to Michele’s hand but she was too scared to reach for it.
Michele shuddered and swallowed a scream when she heard the man unbuckle his jeans and drop them around his ankles. This was it! She was about to be sexually assaulted!
“God; I’ve gotta have me some of that fat pantied ass!” he groaned.
He pushed his groin against Michele’s plump buttocks and began to dry fuck her ass. He revelled in the feel of the sleek satin rubbing against his sensitive glans. He lifted the leg opening of Michele’s panties and slid his cock inside them and nestled it in the crease of her buttocks. He rubbed his cock along the crevice of her ass, the base of his penis sliding over her pantyhose and the glans sliding under her satin panties. He pushed down with his hand so his cock remained wedged in the woman’s ass-crack whilst the fabric of her pantyhose and panties encased his throbbing cock.
Michele wriggled and sobbed when she felt the man’s erection wedge itself into her ass-crack; she thought this was just the preamble before he stuck his vile thing in her and sexually assaulted her properly. But Michele didn’t realise how much the man liked a woman’s ample ass sheathed in nylons and panties.
The Stalker knew he wouldn’t be able to last long but he didn’t care; he knew that he would recover soon enough to give the woman a proper fucking but right now he was enjoying himself too much to stop. He thrust against the woman’s soft yielding buttocks once, twice, three times, and ejaculated. He ground his groin against the woman’s soft yielding panty-clad buttocks and let his cock quiver and pulse as he ejaculated on her.
He watched as a wet stain spread across the back panel of the woman’s red satin panties and then a white pool of semen appeared in the panty fabric as his orgasm washed over him. He humped and pumped away at Michele’s soft fat ass shooting the rest of his spend into the crease of her buttocks.
Michele sobbed with humiliation and shame as she felt the man’s hot spend soak through her pantyhose and scald her ass. He shot streams of semen into her ass-crack and it began to puddle and soak into her panties and hose. Some of the viscous liquid ran down the crevice of her ass past her sphincter and into the tangled bush of her pubic hair. She felt debased and disgusted. But, God help her, she also felt a trickle of lust and her vagina began to moisten.
The man’s erection began to subside and he spun Michele around so that she faced him. Michele couldn’t make out the man’s features because the stocking on his head contorted his face.
“Please let me go now,” she begged as she felt his semen run down her thighs and soak her nylons.
“Oh, not yet honey,” he smirked.
He slid his hand back under her skirt and massaged her plump pubis through the layers of panty and pantyhose. He could feel the heat through the silky material. She was wet! Goddamn the bitch was wet!
Michele shuddered as the man caressed her through her underwear. She couldn’t help herself; she was becoming aroused. Her husband hadn’t touched her for months and now this complete stranger was getting her hot! She blushed with shame but she felt her lust building up to a crescendo.
“You’re liking this aren’t you, you horny bitch?” the man sniggered.
Michele blushed but she couldn’t stop herself gasping as her Stalker massaged her hot wet cunt through her panties and hosiery. Her panty-liner was wedged in her cunt soaking up her juices otherwise her panties would have been soaked with vaginal secretions. The back of her panties and her thighs were sodden with the man’s semen but in some insane way this was turning her on even more.
She looked down and saw that the man was erect again; his cock was long and thick, far bigger than her husband’s was. Not that she saw much of her husband’s cock these days. She made a show of trying to escape again but the man put the knife up to her throat again. She justified to herself that she had tried her best to prevent the man from forcing himself on her her but in some deep dark place she was ready for a good fucking.
“Ok lady here we go,” the man grunted.
He reached into her panties and tore open the gusset of her pantyhose; his fingers found the panty-liner and he pulled it out of her and tossed it on the floor. The man kicked her feet further apart and pulled up her skirt admiring the view of her plump thighs encased in the dark nylon of the control-tops; her red satin panties contrasted nicely with the coffee-coloured hose. Whiffs of dark pubic hair were sticking out the gusset of her panties.
Michele felt the man’s fingers trace the outline of her control-tops and then begin a slow and steady crawl up her thighs, stopping occasionally to caress her legs. Michele gasped and the Stalker smiled. It wasn’t often that the women he sexually assaulted got off on it; only one other woman had; and she hadn’t reported the crime. He stroked the silky material on the front of her panties; the sight of the big red satin V of her full-cut panties was extremely arousing.
He positioned himself between her legs and forced his body against hers to hold her in place and pressed her ass into the workbench. He roughly pulled the gusset of Michele’s panties to one side to expose her pubis. Her pubic hair was unkempt and quiet bushy; he could smell feminine hygiene product but it couldn’t mask the musky smell of arousal coming from her cunt.
“You are hot for it bitch!” he smiled.
Michele looked him in the face; her eyes cold.
“I can’t control my body; take what you’re going to; but don’t think I’m consenting to this,” she said solemnly.
Michele grunted as she felt the Stalker’s fingers part her outer lips and then explore the inner folds of her cunt. She bucked her ass and tried to stamp on the Stalker’s feet with her high-heels. He laughed and pushed his finger inside the entrance of her vagina. Michele moaned as the thick digit slid easily into her sodden snatch.
“Christ! Why I am responding like this! I don’t like it! I hate it!” she chanted.
“That’s not what your cunt is telling me,” the Stalker replied.
He explored Michele’s wet tunnel; he was very excited, and a thin stream of clear fluid leaked from the eye of his glans and dribbled onto Michele’s thigh and was quickly absorbed by her sheer nylon hose. He extracted his finger and licked it tasting a mixture of pussy and perfume.
Michele was quivering with fright but she was also aroused; the man was now working on her clit and her juices were flowing freely. She was panting and her hips were moving back and forth in time with the man’s stroking. God he was getting her hotter than she’d been for years. The Stalker positioned the head of his cock at the entrance to Michele’s vagina and parted her labia.
Michele made one more plea for him to stop despite the fact she was turned on like a wanton whore.
“Please don’t do this; I beg you,” she cried.
The Stalker pushed forward and the head of penis slid easily inside the well-built woman. Michele had had two children and her pussy was far from tight but it fit around the Stalker’s hard thick cock like a satin glove. He groaned.
“Oh my God” Michele whimpered.
The Stalker slowly thrust backwards and forwards, his cock pushing at the walls of Michele’s pussy. Michele inhaled explosively as she felt the man’s appendage intrude into her vagina, filling her with pulsing hard cock; it was definitely the biggest she had ever had and despite her predicament it felt good.
The Stalker kept pushing forward until his shaft was completely buried in Michele’s wet cunt and his pubis slammed against hers. Michele exhaled and forced herself to relax the muscles of her vagina. The damage was done now; the man was fucking her so she might as well relax and let him have his way. Her head was filled with conflicting emotions of disgust and lust. She pushed the thoughts of self-loathing aside and concentrated on the wonderful feelings emanating from her vagina.
The Stalker’s cock was snug inside Michele’s cunt; it throbbed and pulsed, expanding and contracting the walls of her pussy; he rubbed his body against her and his hands sought out her sleek nylon-encased thighs. He liked the feel of her silky nylons and panties against his bare skin. He knew that he couldn’t hold back his orgasm for long; he held onto Michele’s hips and began to slowly fuck her. He leaned forward and began to nuzzle her neck; inhaling her perfume. Then he had the audacity to kiss her. Michele allowed her lips to open and let the man explore her mouth with his tongue.
The Stalker began to quicken the pace and Michele responded by matching his thrusts with her own; pushing her pelvis out to meet his thrusts so that the base of his cock rubbed on her clitty. He pounded his cock in and out of Michele Bouvier’s tight snatch. Her ample ass jiggled whenever the Stalker’s pubis smashed into hers which caused her taut thighs to quiver; her silky nylons glittering in the harsh light of the fluorescent lights.
The Stalker was gripping Michele’s hips and slamming himself in and out of her and she was gasping and panting as he assaulted her body; her legs were spread wide and her high-heels scratched at the concrete floor as she fought to maintain her balance. Michele could feel the man’s cock expand inside her and she knew what was about to happen next. The man was about to spend his seed inside her. Michele used contraception so she wasn’t afraid the man would impregnate her but she did give a fleeting thought to sexually transmitted diseases. She was surprised that the man was not afraid to leave his semen on her and inside her; with DNA testing she knew there was a good chance the Stalker could be caught and punished.
Then she felt the man push himself deep inside her and his crotch slammed against hers and he ground himself against her and emptied his seed deep inside her. She could feel the warm ejaculate splash against the walls of her vagina. Michele came and a huge orgasm raced through her body.
She couldn’t control herself and she locked her legs around the man and pulled him to her; he loved the feel of her pantyhosed legs on his bare skin and he bucked and ground against this attractive mature woman who was now frantically kissing him and raking her nails down his back.
The Stalker exploded deep inside Michele’s cunt and he growled with delight as his orgasm washed over him. His hands raked her ass and thighs, tearing her pantyhose and leaving little pink scratches on her smooth soft skin.
“Oh yeah baby! Fuck me back! Fuck me back” he howled as he climaxed; Michele pulled his mouth back to hers and pushed herself harder against him; her tongue explored his mouth as their lips crushed together.
Michele felt the man clawing at her buttocks and thighs as his penis quivered and throbbed inside her, depositing stream after stream of hot semen. Her vagina expanded and contracted around the girth of the man’s member and she felt wave after wave of sexual excitement ripple along the walls of her sex.
Michele and the Stalker pounded against each other until they were both sated. The man, finally spent, eased his cock out of Michele’s soaking twat and watched a little stream of semen leak from her recently pounded pussy. He leaned down and kissed her one last time but she turned her head away from the kiss, ashamed of her actions.
“Post coital regret hey lady? But I bet you’ll have plenty of wet dreams about this for the rest of your life,” the man said as he pulled up his pants.
“You’re a pig and I hope when they catch you I can watch you being sentenced to a long stretch in a prison where they don’t treat Stalkers too kindly!” Michele spat.
“Oh come on lady; you loved it. Anyway I gotta fly,” the man had the audacity to steal another quick kiss.
He took Michele’s black leather bag off the bench and slipped the straps over his shoulder.
“Best you wait at least five minutes before you leave this room bitch or I might think twice about letting you go!” the Stalker threatened.
He then quickly left the filthy workshop and Michele began to sob. Her hair was mussed, her makeup smeared, her skirt torn and her underwear tattered and covered in semen. She pulled her panties back over her puffy vagina aware of the man’s secretions oozing from her. She could smell his semen but also her own vaginal secretions; she hoped that during the forthcoming sexually assault kit at the hospital the doctor wouldn’t be able to tell she had enjoyed being violated.
The Pantyhose Stalker, as the PD referred to him, had struck nine times. Only four of the victims had made police reports but the police knew if four sexually assaults have been reported then there were at least twice that many sexually assaults committed. He had a particular MO; he always sexually assaulted mature well-dressed women; his attacks were swift and vicious and he wore a stocking over his head to hide his features. He didn’t even take the time to strip his victims; in fact the victims reported that he seemed to like fucking them fully clothed; not even removing their underwear or their pantyhose.
He didn’t take too many chances; he selected his victims and followed them to a secluded place such as a parking station or a park. He was very quick but he usually managed to get himself off at least twice during an attack. The FBI profilers at Quantico described him as having ‘remarkable recovery time’.
So far the PD had managed to keep the Pantyhose Stalker a secret from the press but they knew it wouldn’t be long before the press found out that a serial stalker was operating. If the press had been informed and Michele had heard or read about a serial stalker lurking in the city she definitely would not have been on the train that night.
The Pantyhose Stalker didn’t care that he left his DNA on his victims; he knew he was a type A secretor and would be easy to profile. He knew that he had left plenty of fingerprints and other physical evidence at his crime scenes. He also knew that none of the physical evidence would lead the cops to him. Because he was a cop!
Detective Mike Harris worked as a detective in the PD’s Sex Crimes unit; which was quite fitting employment for a stalker he thought. Long ago when he decided to start fucking women at random, he had removed his own DNA and fingerprints from the crime-lab databanks and replaced them with those of an unknown bum who had died long ago. All serving police had their fingerprints and DNA kept on file in the crime-lab so it could be used to eliminate them if a member of the PD accidentally contaminated a crime scene.
Michele lay on the examination table in a quiet room at the local hospital. A female crime scene investigator had taken vaginal swabs and her clothing had been carefully placed in plastic evidence bags. For some reason they had given her pantyhose back to her.
“We don’t need these; we have enough secretions on your panties to do the job,” the CSI specialist had said rather coldly.
“Your husband and daughter are waiting outside and they’ve bought you some clothes,” she said a little more sympathy in her voice.
“Look I know it’s late and you are tired and sore and want to go home but its best if the detectives talk to you while the incident is fresh in your mind,” she went on.
“No! Tomorrow! I can’t do it tonight!” Michele insisted.
“Ok detectives Harris and Munner will be at your home tomorrow to take your statement Mrs Bouvier,” the CSI said.
She opened the door and Michele’s husband and daughter burst into the room and they all hugged and sobbed.
Later that evening after a two torrid hours dealing with an outraged husband and son and sympathetic daughter, Michele was lying in bed. Her husband sat on the edge of the bed; angry and frustrated.
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t scream; someone would surely have heard!” he muttered.
“I’ve told you a hundred times! The man had a knife!” Michele whispered; her voice hoarse from constantly having to retell the ordeal to her husband.
“But you say you were in the workshop for about a half-hour; how could he keep you there for so long? Why would he keep you there for so long?” he went on.
“He did it to me twice Harold! There! Is that what you wanted to hear!” Michele cried.
Her husband had given her the third degree all evening. Now he was implying that his wife had not fought off her attacker hard enough; had not done enough to prevent her attacker from forcefully taking her.
“Come on Michele; you know I’m not blaming you!” Harold pleaded.
“I’m just saying is all; I’m trying to figure out how a man could hold you hostage for half an hour at a crowded railway station and not get caught,” he continued to reproach his wife.
“Oh that’s easy Harold! That’s because I lay down for him, hiked up my skirt, pulled down my panties, and said please fuck me mister stalker; you might as well because my husband never does!” she spat at him.
“Michele! Jesus! The kids will hear!” her husband pleaded in hushed tones.
“Well stop accusing me!” Michele hissed.
“Fuck you Harold! I’m going to sleep!”
Michele rolled over and closed her eyes but immediately the image that sprang into her brain was one of a wanton women dressed in business suit with her skirt hiked and her legs spread wide as a young man rutted way at her. Not even guilt and shame could stop her pussy from aching with desire. She bit her lips and when her husband finally turned off the light, pulled the covers over himself and began a gentle snore, she slipped a finger inside her panties and began to slowly masturbate. She came quietly; biting her lips, trying not to breathe too hard. She imagined the Stalker’s long hard cock spurting inside her when she came. Even then she still couldn’t sleep.
Michele lay in bed unable to sleep for hours thinking about what had happened to her in the subway station workshop until eventually she got up, careful not to wake her sleeping husband. She went into the ensuite bathroom and pulled her come-stained tattered pantyhose from the trash where she had thrown them before showering. The musty smell of her Stalker’s sperm still clung to the diaphanous garment.
She raised the nylons to her face and inhaled the smell of his semen and licked at it with her tongue as her fingers pulled aside the gusset of her panties and parted her labia.
Detective Mike Harris, known only to himself as the Pantyhose Stalker, was quite amused that he and his partner had caught the Bouvier sexually assault case. Only yesterday they had been informed that they were to be part of a task force assigned to the Pantyhose Stalker investigation.
Mike and his partner, Janine Munner, had been teamed up in the Sex Crimes unit, or SVU as they called it on TV, for nearly six months.
Mike pretended to get along with Janine, who was a sergeant and therefore senior to him, but in fact he thought she was an arrogant lesbian bitch. Janine Munner was in fact a lesbian. But not a trouser-suited, comfortable-shoe wearing, spiky-haired dyke. On the contrary, she was a short-skirt and high-heel wearing, pantyhose clad, elegantly coiffured, lipstick-lezzo!
This just made things worse for Mike. Ever the chauvinist and with a libido that drove him to sexually assault women, to be cooped up with an attractive, well-dressed woman, and one of the few women who still wore nylons on the force these days, but was unattainable to him, was almost a form of torture.
Mike and Janine were in their unmarked police car heading for the Bouvier residence. Mike wore an expensive Hugo Boss suit; he was quiet the clotheshorse. Janine was dressed in a navy blue power-suit; the pencil skirt clung to her legs and the jacket hugged her body emphasising her well-formed breasts. She wore grey pantyhose and the obligatory black spiked high-heels.
A lot of the other detectives derided her for dressing that way but she figured in Sex Crimes it was highly unlikely that she would get involved in a foot chase; and besides the bosses, both male and female, liked her clothes sense. The other women on the force looked up to her as a role model and a lot of the men lusted after her even though she made no secret of the fact that she was a lesbian.
Mike was driving but his eyes kept drifting down to his partner’s legs. She was absentmindedly twiddling her long blonde hair as she read the forensic report and her skirt had ridden up showing a significant amount of delectable thigh. Mike could feel a boner coming on and he deliberately dragged his eyes back to the road.
“She refused to be interviewed last night,” Sergeant Munner said.
“Some of them are like that; they can’t talk about it so soon after it has happened,” Mike replied.
“When you say THEM I presume you mean the victim and when you say IT, I presume you mean sexual assault,” Janine Munner replied.
“Janine, I’ve been in Sex Crimes for over two years now; you’ve been here for six months,” Mike said.
“You need to harden up.”
“And YOU need to not treat the victims like objects Mike; do you treat all women that way?” Janine asked.
‘Only the ones I sexually assault or wanna fuck!’ he thought to himself; but he ignored her question.
“Ok Janine, how do you want to play this?” Mike changed the subject.
“I think I should ask the questions and do all the talking; you have more experience than me so you look sympathetic but watch her body-language and the listen to her responses. I want you to get a feel for if you think we’re dealing with the Pantyhose Stalker here,” Janine laid out their strategy.
Thirty minutes later they sat in two comfortable armchairs in the Bouvier’s lounge, facing Michele Bouvier. She had made an effort to dress nicely and wore a mauve dress, hose and heels; her hair had been recently brushed and fresh makeup applied but the strain on her face was obvious. Her husband paced back and forth.
“Can you tell me if there is anything about the man that attacked you that we might be able to use to identify him?” Janine began.
“No, he had a stocking over his head; he was medium build and wore jeans and a Hoodie; that’s all I remember,” Michele answered.
‘He had a nice thick long cock; a lot bigger than my husband’s,’ she thought but obviously didn’t say.
“Ok; his voice?”
“Gruff, but I think he was putting the voice on; it didn’t sound natural,” Michele said.
Janine glanced briefly at Mike; the other women reported that the Pantyhose Stalker had a similar inflection in his voice. Brusque but forced; like it was artificial.
“And he didn’t undress you?”
“Christ! Do you have to go into all the gory details!” Harold Bouvier interrupted.
“Mister Bouvier, we have to get all of the details we can if we are going to catch this man,” Janine Munner said forcefully.
Mike Harris had a huge erection that he was hiding under the legal pad he had placed in his lap. Sitting across from the woman he had forced sexual relations with only yesterday evening was a huge turn on. She looked even better in the light of day despite her anxiety. He thought he could see a little twinkle in her eye but he might have been misled. He glanced down and saw her legs were slightly open; the sunlight coming in through the window shimmered on her suntan pantyhose. Her long legs led his eyes up to the dark tunnel created by her slightly parted legs and the material of her dress.
His cock throbbed; he knew what was under that dress, he’d felt it, smelt it and fucked it. God this was a turn on! She was wearing the same perfume as yesterday and it rekindled the memory of her spread legged, skirt torn and panties pulled to one side as he fucked her in the filthy workshop. He focussed his mind on the present.
“No he didn’t undress me; he ripped my skirt and tore my pantyhose,” Michele said quietly.
Another furtive glance between the detectives; it sounded like their man.
“I’m sorry I have to ask you this, but did he…………………..did he masturbate on you?” Janine asked apologetically.
“Oh fucking Jesus Christ! Is this really necessary?” Harold screeched.
“Mister Bouvier; are you sure you want to be here for this? Your wife is being very brave and you are not helping her,” detective Munner said exasperated.
“You know what? She told me what he did to her! I don’t need to hear it again!” Harold Bouvier growled and stormed out of the room.
“Sorry,” Janine said.
“Its ok; I think he can’t stand what happened to me. And to be honest, I think he’s a little jealous,” Michele said.
‘A strange response?’ Janine thought to herself, her brow knitted and then Michele went on.
“He masturbated over me; he rubbed himself on me and he ejaculated in my underwear.”
Mike’s cock throbbed again listening to the woman explain what he had done to her. But what neither of the detectives knew was that Michele’s vagina was becoming wet. Telling these two strangers what the man had done to her was turning her on.
“He………………..well when I was a teenager we called it dry humping,” Michele blushed.
“No need to explain Mrs Bouvier; we understand what you mean,” Janine was feeling sorry for the woman.
Michele crossed her legs; her stockings hissing in the quiet room immediately caught Mike’s attention and he watched her dress snake up her thighs a little. He saw her squishing her thighs together. Was the bitch getting turned on?
Michele’s panties were wet and her clitty was tingling; she wanted so much to touch herself down there. She couldn’t believe how horny she was feeling; almost constantly now ever since she had been sexually assaulted. Twice last night and once this morning she had bought herself off and now she was ready again!
“And then what happened Mrs Bouvier,” Janine got the interview back on track.
“Oh he err……………he entered me; but he turned me around first so he could look at me.”
“He forced me to kiss him and he made me open my legs wider so he could put it in me. He didn’t take my panties off, he just ripped a hole in my pantyhose and pulled the gusset of my panties aside so he could you know……….do it.”
“I’m sorry we have to do this Mrs Bouvier; but the details matter,” Janine Munner said, compassion evident in her voice.
Michele Bouvier’s panties were now sodden; her clit was engorged and she was scared she was going to orgasm in front of these cops without even touching herself. She kept looking at the handsome young detective and imagined it was he fucking her; taking her right here in the lounge room bent over this very chair. He would bend her over; tear out the crotch of her hose and fuck her! She wriggled a little in her chair and cleared her throat.
“Is that all you need to know?” Michele asked, anxious now for them to leave.
“Nearly done now. Is there anything else that you think may help us identify the man?” Janine said looking earnestly into Michele’s eyes.
“Not really; except I could describe his Johnson to you!” Michele cackled.
“Oh I’m so sorry that was so inappropriate!” she blushed.
“Don’t worry Mrs Bouvier; it’s just shock. You would be surprised what some witnesses say in the heat of the moment,” Janine made to leave; rising out of her chair.
Mike Harris stole a quick glance up Janine’s skirt as she struggled out of the big armchair. ‘Hmm; pink panties today,’ he thought. His gaze went back to Michele Bouvier; if he didn’t know better he would swear the woman was turned on. Maybe she was? She certainly was yesterday evening when he fucked her.
Michele began to stand too and once again Mike got eyeful of her thick but sexy thighs as she rose; he couldn’t quite see up her skirt but he got a great view of her legs.
Mike stood up and as the two women gave each other a quick farewell hug; he was able to conceal his erection in his suit pants.
“I’m so sorry this happened,” Janine said.
“Me too,” Michele replied; knowing that deep down she was lying.
Just then the door burst open and in rushed a teenaged girl; Michele Bouvier’s daughter the detectives deduced.
“Oh God mom I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t stay at school today! Not after what you have been through, I want to be home with you. I want to be here for you, for whatever you want me to do to help,” the teenaged girl hugged her mother.
“My daughter Nadine,” Michele explained to the two detectives.
Nadine Bouvier was a freshman at the Graham Academy; a community college. She had brunette hair just like her mother, worn in a ponytail. She was curvaceous, not stick thin like so many girls her age, and she had her mother’s looks too. She was attractive; not schoolgirl pretty. She was currently dressed in a cheerleader outfit; a white pleated skirt riding high on her thighs, a figure-hugging spandex top, white with the letters GA in blue and red emblazoned across her tits. She was wearing heavy makeup, which was slightly smudged from the practice session she had been doing before she came home. Her long well formed legs were encased in sheer flesh-tone tights and she also wore bobby-sox and white gym shoes.
Mike Harris gawped at this younger version of Michele Bouvier; he usually preferred mature women but this girl was perfect! She hugged her mother on tippy-toes and her pleated skirt rode up and exposed her white spandex panties; the flesh-tone tights contrasted beautifully with her white panties.
Janine Munner saw Mike staring and shot him a hateful glare. Mike shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘she’s showing; I’m looking!’ and then made to the hallway.
Janine and Michele followed him to the front door.
“Once again Mrs Bouvier thank you for your cooperation and I’m so sorry this has happened to you,” Janine said, shaking hands.
“Me too Mrs Bouvier,” Mike spoke for the first time.
Michele Bouvier was visibly taken aback. The detective’s voice somehow seemed familiar but she couldn’t place it. As she shook hands with him Michele looked him directly in the eyes and she wasn’t sure but she thought she saw a gleam there. A sexy gleam, an interesting gleam, a devious gleam! Her pussy spasmed and she felt herself moisten again. She was puzzled but intrigued.
Michele watched the detectives walk down the path and climb into their car; her daughter by her side.
“What do you think?” Janine Munner said as they fastened their seat belts.
“It’s him. It’s the Pantyhose Stalker” Mike Harris replied.
“Yep; it’s him,” she echoed.
‘I also think I’m going to take Michele Bouvier’s daughter,’ Mike thought to himself and smiled.
To Be Continued
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