The girl was let off at a catholic high school five miles away. The SUV continued on, with me following. I had to remain several cars behind in order to remain inconspicuous. In another five miles the SUV pulled into a four story office complex, and the woman parked and got out. She was dressed in a very smart business skirt suit and carried a stylish lap top bag. Walking briskly with never a glance to her surroundings, the woman entered the building.
I went and had breakfast. A Mexican joint that made my favorite: huevos rancheros.
Later that morning I was jogging and just happened to be on the street where they lived. I was whistling that tune from “My Fair Lady” about the excitement of being on the street where someone special lives. As I was passing the curbside mailbox at 444, I suddenly felt the need to cling to something and retch. I choose the mailbox to lean on. Leaning over it, faking a retch, I opened the mailbox and quickly took out its contents: some junk mail, a bill and a magazine. (I had seen the mailman pass by forty minutes earlier.) The mail fit nicely beneath my sweatshirt. Slowly I continued on, soon breaking into a jog again. It certainly seemed to be a quiet residential neighborhood.
Half an hour later I was at a Starbucks reading their mail. The bills were addressed to a Sandra McFarland. The magazine, one for teenage girls, was addressed to Megan Nichols. Nothing for a Mr. McFarland or a Mr. Nichols. Interesting.
Pulling out my lap top, I quickly found Megan Nichols on Facebook. Hmmm. Nice picture. Pretty girl. Under “likes and interests”, then “activities”, I discovered that she played volleyball. Was on her high school volleyball team. Birthday….was last month, and let’s see…she’s only sixteen! Big time jail bait! Well, what I planned to do would carry jail time regardless of the age! Proceed carefully, my friend.
I sipped my coffee, then called Megan’s high school and found out that there was a game at the school that night at 7:00.
**********
Megan’s team was in a tight struggle with the visiting squad. The crowd was not large, but large enough for me to blend in unnoticed. I was sitting in the visitor’s section, close but not too close to some of the visiting parents. I figured I would not be sniffed out as a stalking sexual predator if the home crowd on the other side of the court assumed I was a visiting relative, and the visiting crowd assumed that I was just out of place.
Megan looked fantastic in her tight, short volleyball shorts and equally tight fitting jersey, number 5. There were several other hotties on her team, and on the other team, as well, but I had eyes only for Megan. Her long legs were sleek and smooth. Her blonde hair was pinned up for the game, but loose strands would work free, causing her to brush them out of her face occasionally. Her young breasts, obviously held in place by some sort of sports bra, appeared to be having an ongoing fight with her jersey regarding space rights. How, I wondered, did the nuns at this catholic school let these young girls prance around in such sexy, provocative attire? Looking around the gym, though, I didn’t see any nuns. They must have not been sports fans.
I was extremely disappointed at the beginning of the game that Megan’s mom, Sandra, was not to be seen among the twenty or so parents in the home crowd. My disappointment turned to elation, though, when, with the game tied 5-5 in the first set, in she came, hurrying, still dressed as she was that morning when I followed her to work. My eyes followed her like a hawk watching a rabbit as she hurried in on the other side of the court. She climbed several rows up in the bleachers and plopped into a seat near three other mothers who greeted her warmly. No man was around them. “Where is the father?” I wondered. Is there a Mr. McFarland/Nichols? Megan’s Facebook entries hadn’t provided a clue on this.
In any event, from then on my eyes rotated between Megan on the court and her mom in the bleachers. When Megan, at the net, had a rousing kill, the home crowd cheered lustily. Sandra jumped up, laughing and clapping. Two of the other mothers gave her high fives. I pictured her naked, tied to a bed.
After a time-out, I noticed how Megan lingered a moment with the coach, a good looking guy in his thirties, who put a hand on her shoulder as he gave her some one-on-one instruction. How could a guy like that be around a bunch of hot little teenie boppers, I wondered, without either going crazy or getting busted for statutory?
Megan’s team pulled out an exciting three set victory. She and her teammates celebrated wildly, while their parents stood applauding. Meanwhile, half of the girls on the losing team were crying while their parents also applauded, but in a more subdued manner. One of the girls on the other team did draw my attention away from Megan and her mom for a moment, a dark little brunette who had dropped to the floor in despair after match point. As I watched her sitting there, her elbows on her knees, her face buried in her hands, an image flashed through my head of her tied up in the back of a van, her volleyball shirt and sports bra pushed up around her neck, her tight shorts in a bunch around her bound ankles, revealing her dark skinned body in all its beauty. I was driving the van to a remote location….
I snapped out of my fantasy in time to see Megan and her mom embracing at courtside. As the crowd then filed out of the gym, I was only steps behind the two of them as they walked out into the school hallway and headed for the doors. Megan had put on a warm-up suit and walked with her mother outside to the SUV, waving and saying goodbyes to teammates and their families.
There was no need to follow them from a close distance this time since I knew where they lived. I drove past their house maybe five minutes after they returned home. The lights inside were on. I was glad the garage door was closed; otherwise I might have been tempted to get things going with them prematurely. And that would not have been a wise decision. I still had planning to do.
********
The following morning I was in my other car, waiting just down the street from 444. I had changed cars, obviously, so as not to draw suspicion. As I awaited the garage door to open, I looked carefully at the home security system sign that was placed close to the front door of the house. Was it for real? I knew people who did not invest in such systems, but who placed signs like this so that people like me would think they had them. I was going to assume the sign was for real. That meant no breaking and entering.
As I was contemplating various entry possibilities, the garage door opened. It was almost exactly the same time as the day before. Good. A pattern. I noticed something else that was very interesting, something that had also happened the day before. The mother would get in the SUV and have the engine running, still in the garage with the door open, and would have to honk several times before the girl would come running out to the car.
Before the SUV could back out of the driveway, I started my car and drove away. No need to follow anymore. I knew where the woman was going. I drove straight to Sandra’s office building and was waiting inside the door when she walked in after dropping her daughter off at school. It was an office building that had a number of different businesses located in it: real estate offices, insurance agents and the like. I pretended to be studying the building’s directory, mounted on a wall just inside the door, as Sandra came striding in and walked past me, her high heels clicking on the tile floor. Casually, I turned and followed her. She was wearing a black suit, its skirt falling to the knees. It would have been considered a conservative outfit except for a not too subtle slit up one side of the skirt, a slit that left no doubt that her legs were quite sensational. As she walked briskly toward her office in the same manner as she had undoubtedly done on countless other mornings, with her shoulder length dark blonde hair bouncing and her fine, trim ass swinging softly, she did not know that on this particular morning a rapist was stalking her. Her future rapist’s eyes fixed on that sensual ass as it swayed before him. His hands soon enough would be upon that ass. Only it wouldn’t be clothed when that happened.
The woman entered office number 112. On the glass door of the office was written “Sandra McFarland and Associates”. A secretary type was at a desk near the door. I watched her greet Sandra, who continued walking and entered one of several backroom offices.
An hour late I was dialing the phone number for Sandra McFarland and Associates. A woman answered. “Yes,” I said, I’m looking for Sandra Nichols”.
“Sandra Nichols?” The woman’s voice sounded confused. “This is Sandra McFarland and Associates…wait, Nichols was Ms. McFarland’s married name.”
“Was?” I asked.
“She’s no longer married.” A bit of irritation appeared to be creeping into voice on the other end of the line. “Is it Ms. McFarland that you want? May I say who’s calling?”
“No, that’s okay, I think I’ve got the wrong person. Thanks anyway.” I hung up.
So, she’s divorced! Or widowed, whatever. Mother and daughter live alone! No big, bad male dude to worry about! A big smile covered my face as I sipped my Starbucks coffee.
********
The next morning, Wednesday, I was ready. I had my handy bag of tricks with me, and was dressed as a meter reader might be dressed. From the previous two mornings I knew the time that the garage door would open, and I was busy pretending to read the next door neighbor’s meter when the door opened this morning. Quickly, I moved to the side of 444 and pressed myself against the exterior wall of the garage. In casing the layout I knew that no nosey neighbor could see me at this particular spot. I heard the SUV’s engine come to life. I ducked down and turned the corner leading to the open garage door, and entered the garage, crawling beside the passenger side of the SUV, my body too low to be seen by the driver. Had the girl come sooner to get into the passenger seat, she would have tripped over me. I was prepared for that contingency, and would have sprung into action at the moment if the situation had called for it. But that wasn’t Plan A.
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