A Christmas Stalking
by Randolph O. Mann
Courtesy of the Bluetooth wedged in my left ear Percival and I are in continual communication. The ‘stand’ is subtly camouflaged as a seasonally decorated Liftman’s Kiosk, exactly as Gaylord had arranged. Such an early occasion is functioning wholly to our advantage as the intensity of ‘first light’ is being glaringly dispersed about the atrium by the domed tiffany casement and the blinding canopy of illumination is very effectively masking our urban ambush from persnickety yuletide scrutiny.
By design, Gaylord is using her daybreak commuting hour to casually abridge the problem of assiduous interlopers complicating this ‘Harvest’ as the number of Christmas revelers is significantly reduced at the crack of dawn. I am deftly cloaked as a concierge dressed like Father Christmas, with two hired huntsmen are at the ready, clad in elfin attire and masquerading as lobby porters. My ‘blind’ is capably situated across the hallway and downwind of the three ornate hammered-copper elevator doors. Gaylord is laying in wait behind the innermost of those lift-gates ready to waylay our innocent quarry.
I find this waiting to be positive mind-numbing, not to mention worrisome.
But I take solace, knowing that Percival has come highly recommended, rendered as the paramount outfitter in the business with impeccably successful yield numbers. Gaylord, knowing how this is my first Harvest, has further attempted to minimize my angst via sharing his pre-hunt subterfuge with me. I was made privy to how this pursuit has not been a simple task for Percival. As Gaylord put it – “considerable thought went into the plan-in”, further explaining how important it is to lure this “particular jenny” away from the University campus and clear of ‘Sanctuary Jurisdiction’ before we can lawfully detain the female.
It seems that according to my guide, taking a valued ‘trophy’ of this quality involves shrewdness of the uppermost order. Months have been invested surveying the migratory pattern and feeding habits of this ‘vixen’ until her everyday routine could be forecasted with confidence. Percival boasted how he could even deduce the commencement – ‘of that Little Lady’s menstruation to within a twelve minute window if need be and... who the Hell are you to question my 'hunting savvy'! After all, I had to admit, this Feminine Harvest had been purchased with a reimbursement guaranty that assures my fullest satisfaction or as it was put to me – ‘you gets your money back, son.’ So I did as I was instructed and ‘shut my trap’.
Mr. Gaylord then took the added opportunity to clarify this morning’s hunting strategy. By explaining how his Due Diligence and Discovery has established that our ‘intended issue’ harbors aspirations of securing a teaching post. So with this judicious information in hand, Percival has arranged for the delivery of a spuriously composed invitation from the Dean of Geary Hall requesting a summit with Miss Norgard for this very morning. Anticipating how such an event would be impossible for this curvy ‘jill’ to ignore, Gaylord has flawlessly predicted how such an extremely alluring temptation will be exploited when the ‘lil darling’ is persuaded away from her cosseted scholarly warren. Leaving nothing to chance, Percival administered our preparations down to the joyful holiday bunting decorating the elevator antechamber. All last night we were kept busy constructing this elaborate ‘kill zone’ here in the lobby of the Off Campus Chancellor’s Building, provisionally located just off the Presidio Parade Grounds where we now sit in hiding.
My awkward wait is finally terminated with the distant echo of the hollow clicking from pricey feminine stilettos as they provide dramatic counter-point to Bing Crosby’s vocal rendering of White Christmas. While a refined female figure sashays diagonally across the festively decorated terrazzo vestibule I impatiently watch out of the corner of my eye as step by hip-swinging step this attention-grabbing ‘prize’ saunters from behind a bulky Christmas tree that is regrettably blocking my view of the front entrance. Coyly, just as Gaylord had promised, this well-groomed ‘heifer’ meanders almost into range while dragging a wheeled briefcase and sporting a formfitting knee-length charcoal colored pencil skirt that she has adroitly coupled with a stylish periwinkle tinted crop-top. The billowy construction of the filly’s azure blouse hints there is a substantial ‘rack’ to be found tethered beneath the glossy fabric. The lady’s naked midriff attests to a rigorous training curriculum and suggests a potent location above her ‘croup’ to deposit my soporific dart, but only if she can be coaxed into position to take my shot.
I employ an inspired mock-cough, signaling to my fictitious bellhops to subordinately take up positions between the elevator doors. The lady’s harried approach is met with my practiced convivial smile aimed circuitously toward my edgy quarry. I am confident my ‘grin’ will be able to cajole her closer, and once my shy ‘peahen’ ambles into a relaxed audible range I will deliver a field hardened ‘call’ in the hopes of luring this shapely ‘minx’ in.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Norgard.”
My out of the blue familiar acknowledgment causes the lady to balk in mid stride as she approaches the elevator egress. Discreetly this ‘doe’ comes to a measured standstill just beyond the range of my blowgun. From where this weary ‘sow’ is intently eyeballing our well concealed trap for something ... anything that might be out of place. Knowing how direct eye contact at this critical time might send this “skittish ‘Dam’ a scurrying”, Percival expertly uses our cellular headset connection to counsel me upon maintaining a façade of preoccupation during this decisive segment of the stalk. So I return my attention towards bogus formalities at my podium as I fashion a detached manner, then without looking up I casually utter,
“The Dean informed us to be expecting you early this morning.”
Continuing with my phony bureaucratic tasks I firmly address the fraudulent doormen in a brusquely commanding voice. “Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to summon the lift for Miss Norgard and assist the young lady with her baggage, please!”
My officious misdirection is working to perfection as our prey is slowly but surely lured into place between the ersatz porters, arranging her directly opposite the central elevator door with her dorsal acreage naively presented up to my needle as she waits for the sluggish lift to arrive. With both huntsmen/bellhops shrewdly centering their attention aloft, towards the cheerfully decorated overhead pulley-monitor that is intermittently displaying felonious floor-level readings, our prey is subtly encouraged to follow their line of sight as she innocently becomes a casualty of our subterfuge while openly joining the forged surveillance.
From my flipside hideaway I carefully insert a tranquilizer dart into my blowpipe before bring it to the ready and wafting a lungful of air down the tube. The echo of my dart exiting the tube prompts Percival to quickly join the action as he engages the ‘lobby Knob’, triggering the lift-gate and liberating him to join the mêlée.
Luckily the puffing flurry of my discharge went entirely unheeded by my distracted quarry until the sting from the narcotic chronicled the delivery of my barbed endowment. Her reflex reaction is to reach directly toward the location of her discomfort which dislodges my empty dart causing it to fall upon the tiled flooring. The piercing clatter from my spent hypodermic dart bouncing on the limestone tiles crystallizes the acuity of her current predicament. The young female’s soft brown doe eyes take on a dark raven color as her line of vision stretches to include Percival. Her loathing toward Gaylord is unspoken as she rapidly comes to appreciate her role as the stalker’s lackey.
From afar I watch as the predictable anaesthetized pall leisurely clouds her eyes and the muscular control of her lower appendages progressively deteriorates until she is unable to stand and she stumbles flaccidly into the waiting arms of my guide. Then with the costumed huntsmen conveniently standing at each of her elbows they haul our lethargic prize into the waiting lift. Miss Norgard is placed face up on the elevator floor as Gaylord collects my used tranquilizer dart from the lobby floor. Hand signals from Percival direct me in the ideal placement for the yellow caution tape and the positioning of the “Out Of Order’ placard calculated to justify a dormant elevator tower. Together Gaylord and I join the hunting party inside the elevator cage. A nod from Percival confirms all is ready so I push the button marked fifteen that will send us aloft.
Even before the lift shuts Percival and his men begin to ‘field dress’ our catch. I watch as an acquiescent expression passes over the little lady’s countenance and Gaylord initiates the debasing skinning process. The huntsmen arrange her diagonally inside the lift cage to permit convenient access to her coffers. With a huntsman positioned near her head and the other next to her feet the young woman is gently rolled onto her side in an effort to inspect the wound left by my dart. A sterile wipe is used to thoroughly clean the puncture site. Gaylord removes his hunting shears from a weathered leather scabbard hanging at his hip. Then in one continuous cutting motion Percival traces the line of her spinal column, cutting through the flimsy cerulean fabric of her crop top and vigilantly dipping the inferior tip of his clippers beneath the wide back-cinch of her strapless brassiere as he productively severs both her garments.
Next, applying a practiced method, Gaylord locates the zipper-clinch of her charcoal kilt in order to fully disengage that dorsal closure and exposing a matching garter belt and thong. By snaking his index finger between the ‘sow’s hide’ and the waistband of her curious lingerie choice Percival can draw the whale-tail into view with a healthy tug. A nifty twist of the wrist by Gaylord knots all three divergent threads of her personal garment in such a fashion as a single economical snip liberates the confining triangular intersection and promptly allowing those elastic strands to relax before reapplying the business end of the utility clippers in the direction of the hoary dyed material of her skirt and snipping from the base of the zipper to her hem.
With our catch dorsally vulnerable to the elements I watched transfixed as Percival and his men spin the snoozing gal onto her backside again. Positioning the latent creature in an extended catholic pose with her ankles entwined and both arms estranged Christ-like, making for an easy task as Percival reaches between her defenseless udders to seize the freshly liberated blouse and foundation garment by using the fingers of his right hand and simultaneously tugging away at the office-appropriate skirt with the digits of his left hand. These tattered fashions are deposited out of the way by pitching them into a game bag deliberately positioned in the corner of the lift.
Giving our freshly rendered prize the once-over I establish how this ‘doll’ is now clad in only lacy dark blue suspenders that are coupled onto a pair of harmonizing indigo control-top stockings with her crotch obscured by the ragged snippets of her thong underpants. My suspicions of an abundant rack are graphically recognized as her full-sized c-cup breasts stumble onto the scene. As Percival put it,
“Them are as hefty and balanced a twosome as any hunter would want.”
Gaylord then gave each of her breasts a hearty squeeze to ascertain if they had been authentically developed and a confirming nod in my direction validated his findings in the affirmative. Confiscating the lady’s mutilated azure thong is done with panache few hunters practice, as I watch Gaylord extricate the tatty article from between the female’s thighs with a conjurer’s cry. “Ta Da!”
And instantaneously I am surveying the Lady’s privacy. I grandiose fashion the huntsman assigned to picket duty at the ‘roo’s’ feet expands the theater by spreading the ‘flyer’s’ legs and directly improving my glimpse of her modestly plucked oracle. Presented in discernable splendor I leisurely scrutinize the ‘queen’s’ secret wealth noting the cleanly shaved surface to be found between her silken sheathed lower limbs as totally deserted but for the two formerly sited Harvest Tattoos located upon each of the lips of her ‘’honey pot. Dually ‘inked’ as a veteran hunting souvenir I am privileged to think how I was able to ‘stick it to’ such an obviously over-hunted “hinney.’ Smiling from ear to ear I watch as Gaylord stencils my Harvest Emblem amongst the others proudly decorating the crotch.
“It’s time to dine at the Y, son!”
“You must taste her twat, Boss.”
“I don’t think so!”
“Of course you will. It is a First Harvest Tradition!”
“A First Harvest Tradition? What Tradition are you talking about?”
Percival patiently enlightens me upon the mannish historical significance linked to neophyte seekers performing cunnilingus with their initial prey. It is adamantly detailed for me how this awkward task has been elevated to the lofty status of a ritual commemoration of the primeval rites of passage and it is anticipated I will cheerfully follow suit or bear the appalling designation of ‘PUSSY’.
Conceding to their vehement request that I most avoid such a shameful disgrace I comply as the heavy-eyed ‘hen’ is repositioned with her ‘withers’ serving as a foundation while her ‘flank’ is raised above the lift floorboards and each ‘stifle’ is precariously balanced upon my apposite shoulders. Gaylord orally directs the deployment of the camera equipment and advises upon suitable lighting while suggesting an appropriate camera angle from which to record this mammoth occasion.
Then, upon his cue, “Action!”
I do what I believe most in my position would do. I humbly acknowledge the spirit of the season by acquiescing to the incessant peer pressure and accept this peculiar occasion as a fluky early yuletide bequest prior to burying my face into the hub of her feral Christmas Pie, ... until I am obliged to come up for air and then plagiarizing the words of Tiny Tim, I proclaim for all to hear,
“Merry Christmas, and God bless us, Every one!”
Copyright© 2011 by Randolph O. Mann. All rights reserved.