Computer Virus

An odd one this time. I'm not sure where the idea came from, but ... here it is. Also, I wasn't too sure about the category, but this seems to fit best. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

The woman he follows is an enigma; he thinks he knows her from somewhere, and indeed he does, she's his ideal woman. But she isn't all that she seems.

Feedback is appreciated; either below in the public comments section, PM on Lit, or email. If you want a response from me, email is best.

As usual, please forgive any gaping errors - which are likely.

GA - Antigua, Guatemala. 10th May 2012.

*

Hunched over like a question mark, the can of Heinz tomato soup halfway to the shopping basket at my feet, I gawped open-mouthed as she breezed past on a waft of perfume. Uncurling from the awkward, undignified attitude, I watched her walk along the aisle, saw the yellow dress flicking briskly at the hem, saw her turn left, and she was gone.

Overwhelming déjà vu pinned my boots to the floor. She looked familiar, so familiar that for the life of me, ironic because it would come to mean my life, I couldn't place where I'd seen her before. A vague recollection came to mind, an impression of my laptop computer that couldn't quite coalesce into memory proper. One certainty however, right there in the supermarket aisle, as solid as the rich, red labelled can of soup in my hand, was the attraction. From the first instant the lure of her clenched in my vitals, somewhere indefinable, way down low, deeper than my guts -- an instinctive desire, a primordial need.

I abandoned the lonely tin of soup, left it in the shopping basket on Tesco's floor and, cursing at the crowded aisles choked with people, searched for the woman. Moving along the broad concourse at the rear of the shop I scanned each aisle for a flash of canary yellow.

She couldn't have gone far; I'd only been ten seconds behind her. I went from one end of the shop to the other, glancing down each avenue, yet there was no sign of her. After a similar reconnaissance of the check-out desks I left the store. Following a moment's deliberation I decided to wait on the seats next to Gap in the hope that she would cross my path again.

As I waited, feeling like an idiot for doing so, wondering if people walking past could sense my lewd intentions, I pondered at just what the hell I was doing.

'Stalking a woman in Tesco is getting a bit desperate,' I muttered to myself, shaking my head and examining the toes of my boots. 'How sad can I get?'

At the very moment I decided to give up and retrieve the shopping basket from the supermarket floor a twinge of recognition squeezed my guts. The woman in the yellow dress sauntered past, carrier bag in hand. How had I missed her? Taken by surprise at her sudden reappearance I swore when I realised I'd lose sight of her again. She moved with a cool, graceful elegance, poised and self-confident, and I watched the dress flash Morse code like an Aldis lamp through the constantly shifting human fog, which was useful since it signalled the woman's whereabouts as she cut a confident path through the crowd. I stood up, camouflaging myself with the constantly shifting mass of people. Folding their amorphous form around me I followed at a discrete distance.

I trailed her into Costa where for the next fifteen minutes I alternated between surreptitiously watching her and questioning my actions.

What the hell was I doing following a complete stranger around the supermarket? Why had I stalked her to Costa? She was sexy of course, really, really sexy, yet I couldn't define the feeling, the longing and dull ache way down deep that drew me to her. There was more to it than sexual allure, and the whisper of déjà vu came again. Oddly, with that sense of somehow knowing the woman came a sense of fear, an icy finger sliding down my spine like cold sweat.

I pushed the sensation aside, ignoring prickle of premonition, and watched her sip a latte, absorbing the detail of her -- attractive, assured, with the promise of generously proportioned breasts swelling against the bodice of the summer dress. No wedding ring I noticed when the woman flicked blonde, straight, bobbed hair from her face with her left hand. Not that it was significant these days, the absence of a ring on a woman her vintage. I estimated early forties, must have history, even if there was no husband there were bound to be men interested, I certainly was. I decided I liked her face, not classically beautiful, but pretty in a seasoned, interesting way that I preferred. I saw a mischievous glint in her eyes when she glanced up and her sightline caught mine. I reddened, and the ghost of a smile lifted her high cheekbones at my colouring.

My eyes slid away from her amused appraisal. She probably got that all the time, I thought, men ogling from a distance. Then, leaving me in my seat, for I was too embarrassed to follow despite the urge to talk to her, the woman left the coffee shop.

At work on Thursday, the day after the encounter, I couldn't concentrate. So filled were my thoughts that I repeatedly found myself staring at the computer monitor, not really seeing what was on the screen, just staring blankly at the screensaver when it kicked in after five minutes inactivity. As the meaningless pattern shifted I imagined her image forming among the kaleidoscope of dots and whorls. I saw her face focus in the random patterns. She smiled at me before her face receded, the image pulling back like a scene in a film, in turn revealing her neck, her breasts, a jewelled navel, her narrow waist and wide hips. I could see, at the junction of her thighs, a tuft of pubic fluff. My breathing quickened and my cock stiffened as the image drew further away and I saw her completely nude. The image was so detailed, so exquisitely outlined that I could even make out the carnival colours of her painted toenails. Desperation came at me then, hot and quick, clogging my throat with longing.

A telephone rang and the picture vanished. Suddenly realising my extended torpor I vaguely reached for the coffee cup, only to grimace when I took a cold mouthful. Just how long had I been absent? It was just the hum-drum screensaver pattern on the monitor next time I looked.

In an attempt at distraction, trying to get my mind off the woman, I went into the city centre at lunch time. After picking up a sausage roll in Greg's I walked along the busy pedestrian precinct. Preoccupied I was unusually oblivious to the pretty girls in their brief summer costumes who thronged my route to the park.

Then I saw her. I stopped abruptly, causing a man behind me to swerve round the obstacle I'd become. I couldn't believe it. There she was!

'Twat,' the man I'd inconvenienced muttered in passing, glaring at me.

I ignored the insult. Desire tugged at my vitals as I stood there, gawping. It was definitely her at the TSB cashpoint. She looked terrific, even in the ubiquitous office worker's uniform of an un-patterned, white, sleeveless blouse that buttoned down the front, accompanied by a tight black skirt which came to mid thigh. I thought it a flattering ensemble that somehow enhanced her fecund sexiness rather than turn her into a drone.

The woman turned from the machine as she tucked cash and bank card into a black handbag. I watched her flick her head to throw her long fringe out of her eyes. To my surprise, as she turned and saw me standing there, she smiled. 'Hello again,' she said.

Again. She recognised me! Had she noticed me following her the day before? There had been only the briefest eye contact in Costa, surely I hadn't made that much of an impression. My heart beat faster and my chest swelled with hope.

'Bloody idiot,' someone muttered, bringing an end to my musing. I was becoming a nuisance just standing there like a bollard, a danger to shipping on the busy concourse.

Blinking I side-stepped out of the human traffic. 'Shit,' I muttered, for the woman had gone.

The blank episodes now grew to obsession. I kept turning the nugget of that word over and over in my mind: again. If she'd noticed me, I deliberated as the office hummed around me, which she must have done otherwise she would have just said a simple hello, a polite greeting as she caught my eye. But she'd added the again. I took the word out of its box frequently that afternoon, examining it like a precious jewel, turning it and examining every facet of possibility.

'Away with the fairies are you, mate?' Jimmy, a friend and colleague asked, noticing one of the vacant episodes. He grinned and walked away, neither of us knowing it would be the last time he'd ever see me. 'Must be a woman,' he muttered, shaking his head.

***

Friday night was usually pub night, but I didn't feel like sitting in the flat alone, too much time to think about, obsess on, her. So I found myself in The Moorhen, the soulless place by the lake in the middle of the housing estate. No low-beamed ceilings here; no ghosts or history either since the place had only been up for two years, but it was the best option for distraction within walking distance. Thursday night was curry night, two meals and a bottle of wine for fifteen quid -- a bargain -- and the place was rammed with harassed couples and their fractious offspring. After waiting patiently at the bar for some fat dickhead in a Leicester Tigers rugby shirt, obviously bought a few seasons previously judging by the spare tyre bulging at the middle, to pay his bill and get the hell out of the way, I ordered a pint of the guest ale.

It was as I turned to search the place for any familiar faces, one of the lads from football maybe, that I saw her at a table in the corner by the open double doors that led to the patio and beer garden beyond. She sat there, cool and poised as ever, unruffled by the cacophony of squalling kids around her, an island of elegant calm. Our eyes met, and a cold water shock of recognition dashed against my senses. Her head tilted to one side as she lifted a long-stemmed wine glass in salute. To my surprise she indicated with a nod of her head to a miraculously vacant chair at her table.

I looked around and pulled that 'Who? Me?' look, pointing to my own chest.

The woman laughed, nodding.

I weaved a path through the bar, skirting groups clumped in my way. As I went to her, pint in hand, several emotions collided. Part of me wanted to turn and run -- a wise instinct hindsight would tell -- for I found that now the moment of truth was upon me, the meeting I'd craved, I was afraid I'd muck it up. What if I said something really stupid and she thought me an idiot? My knees trembled with excitement at seeing her so unexpectedly, too good to be true. Simple, old-fashioned lust for her coursed through my veins and thickened my cock, bubbling to boiling point when she turned her body toward me in welcome. The lush promise of those breasts, eyes, full kissable lips, silenced the crowd noises in my ears.

Her smile broadened, beaming up at me. 'Hello,' she said as I virtually collapsed into the seat. 'I'm Alexandra.' She proffered a hand. 'Lovely to meet you at last.'

'Peter,' I replied, as her cool fingers briefly closed on my clammy hand. She leaned back in the chair, even that simple movement, the grace with which her limbs arranged themselves, stirred me.

Between us, despite the surrounding gurgling of pub noises, a silence lengthened.

'Do I know you?' I blurted. 'You seem to know me but, and I'm really sorry, I ...'

'Of course you do, darling.' Alexandra interrupted before taking an unhurried sip of wine. Placing the long-stemmed glass in front of her she added: 'I'm your ideal woman.'

Well that floored me, undeniably true as her statement was, on a physical level at least, the forthright delivery stunned me, and I gaped at her like a goldfish, open-mouthed and stupid.

What the hell was going on?

'But how do you know me?' I asked. My eyes flicked across Alexandra's chest, then back up to her face. 'If I'd met you before I'd remember you.'

Alexandra smiled, swivelling in the chair and crossing her legs. The tight skirt across her thighs caught my eye and I shifted uncomfortably with the insistent pressure of a hard-on inside my jeans.

'It's a strange story, Peter,' Alexandra said in a quiet voice I struggled to hear. She leaned forwards slightly and I couldn't help but look down to where her blouse gaped, the two top buttons undone. I swallowed heavily, swigging beer when I saw the lacy edge of one bra cup and the smooth skin swelling above. 'You might think I'm completely mad if I tell you.' Her eyes twinkled a challenge. 'Would you believe me, I wonder?'

I couldn't place her accent, definitely English but without any regional inflection. And what she'd said ... that was weird. I looked at Alexandra again and quickly decided that I could put up with a little weirdness.

'You don't look mad,' I responded. At that moment lust outweighed incredulity. By the time scepticism was an option I was two pints of beer past caring.

'Shall we have another drink?' Alexandra suggested, yet made no move towards the bar.

'Uh. Sure,' I said, noticing the drained pint glass in front of me. I went to the bar and was, to my surprise, served immediately -- No negative bar presence this evening. I returned to the table, placing Alexandra's glass in front of her, taking the opportunity, from my elevated position to have a quick peep at her cleavage. Were there three buttons undone now? She's definitely up for it, I thought, thrilled by the possibility. The hand holding the beer glass trembled as I sipped.

'So,' Alexandra said, her eyes sparkling while an amused smirk flicked the corners of her mouth. 'Shall I tell you the story?' She uncrossed her legs, the skirt riding a touch higher on her thighs. As Alexandra leaned towards me I noticed it was definitely three buttons undone now. 'Well,' she began, 'you've seen me before ...'

And she told me the most unbelievable tale.

She inhabited a place that wasn't quite real, sort of inside, cyberspace is how she described it. She was real, she assured me, and when I touched her later she felt real, skin and flesh and bone. I found out that Alexandra tasted real too, and at that point I could still have escaped, but the beer and desire conspired. Afterwards it was too late. Perhaps if the idea that it was an elaborate practical joke hadn't occurred to me I would have escaped, but, as I said, the beer and desire ...

'So,' I said, on my third pint now, 'you're a real, living, walking, talking, breathing female?'

The pub was in hiatus, a point between the curry crowd and the night people. The crowd had thinned and a pair of harried girls hastily cleaned tables of food debris, while another couple noisily prepped the bar with a clattering of bottles and glasses.

At the table by the patio doors Alexandra nonchalantly replied: 'Yes.'

'And I've seen you before, on my computer, on the internet, but I don't quite remember?' Alexandra nodded. 'I need another drink,' I finished.

The idea came to me as I stood at the bar. It's a joke, I thought. Maybe Jimmy ...? Anything else was too ridiculous. Alexandra delivered the story faultlessly, as though she truly believed it. I was stuck with a dilemma. If Alexandra believed in the fantasy then she must either be a raving nut-job, which would be a damn shame because she was just so fucking gorgeous, or she was a damned fine actress. It didn't occur to me to question how Jimmy -- or anyone else since I'm not the most gregarious person -- could know my taste for my ideal woman. Perhaps I didn't want to question too deeply. Maybe I just wanted to fuck Alexandra, lunatic or goddess from a parallel universe, whatever.

I decided to play along, see how it unfolded. A very bad idea.

'Why me?' I asked, relaxed now after three beers, sipping a fourth.

'I'm you're ideal woman,' Alexandra said, simply. She shrugged. 'And I've come to you.' Her eyes locked on mine as she treated me to another glimpse of cleavage. 'For your entertainment,' she finished.

I felt a trickle of pre-cum slide from the eye of my cock. I'd been turned on by Alexandra's close proximity for an hour now. The closeness of her, her scent on the occasional waft of the evening breeze through the open doors, her bosom, succulent and inviting peeping through the gap in her blouse, and now the suggestion that she was here expressly for my pleasure ... I closed my eyes and suppressed a groan.

'Are you going to take me home?' she breathed.

Of course I was.

***

'Turn on your laptop,' Alexandra ordered curtly.

Unquestioning, fuzzy with ale, I complied, leaving her alone in the spare room of my flat, the room I used as a study-cum-office, while I went to recycle some of the beer. As I peed I thought, a complex operation in my state of low inebriation, about the situation I found myself in. All the way home I'd expected Jimmy to make an appearance, to explain the joke, but we arrived at the block on the edge of the estate without being molested at all. How far would Alexandra go? I felt a twist of concern as the nutter scenario occurred to me again. I zipped up and washed my hands, still turning the conundrum over in my head. Maybe it was best if I just asked the woman to leave. There might be a scene if she turned loopy, but better that than—

And all thoughts of barring the woman popped like a pricked balloon when I walked back into my study.

'These are what you wanted to see, aren't they, Peter?'

'Fucking hell ...' I breathed, staring in disbelief.

'Touch them,' Alexandra murmured. 'You like big breasts, don't you.'

Her lopsided smirk confronted me. She knew she had me. I nodded dumbly, still staring at Alexandra cross-legged on the swivel chair -- standard office issue -- with her blouse flapping completely unbuttoned. The spare room of my flat became the lewdest office I'd ever known, Alexandra, with her tits cantilevered over her bra, eased slowly from the seat, breasts swaying with the movement. Her hands came up, palms against the smooth flanks of those trembling jellies. 'Go on,' she breathed. 'Have a feel.' I took a single, wooden pace towards her while her forefingers brushed her nipples. 'Touch me,' she insisted, hefting those heavy jugs in her hands. She offered the fruit to me with a glint and a smile. 'You want my big tits ...' Alexandra sighed, with an accompanying, lascivious wink. '... Come and get them.'

I moved forward, drawn to her, hands reaching like Frankenstein's monster, fingers clasping even before they'd come into contact with Alexandra's breasts. A fizzing sound came from the computer monitor. I sensed danger, some amorphous threat, but was so far gone that I chose to ignore it.

'Alexandra,' I moaned instead, my hands curling around the heavy globes.

The woman snickered, a rich, throaty, threatening sound. 'Touch my tits,' she crooned. 'I'm your ideal woman. My breasts are just the start.'

Overwhelmed, I squeezed and mauled Alexandra's jugs. 'Shit,' I swore, 'can I ...? I mean please ... I want to suck them.'

Alexandra laughed again, and in my mind I heard the witch in the Hansel and Gretel story. There was something wrong, horribly askew. I happened to glance out of the corner of my eye, and saw the laptop. The machine looked suddenly lopsided, its ratio cockeyed, the screen appeared to be double its usual size. Although I'd switched the machine on, the screen was blank, no screen saver. Nothing. Then the image I'd seen of Alexandra on my work computer flickered briefly into view, shimmered for a second and then exploded into a starburst of pixels and the screen turned blank.

'Of course you can suck them,' Alexandra purred, dragging my attention back to reality. Her hand came to the back of my head. Pressure guided my mouth to her teats. 'Ah,' the woman sighed. 'You really like my tits, don't you, Peter.'