Chasing Stacy

Have you ever chased something only to find out it was not what you wanted? Well, that's my whole story. for For most of my sexually aware life, I have wanted to be with Stacy Morgan. We met together in high school, went to the same university, and never once, did I lose sight of my desire.

I suppose if I am to tell you this properly, I should start at the beginning and wind my way through the various highlights.

I was a simple kid, perhaps sixteen, (But don't worry this is not some underage tale), a senior at Coral Coast High School: For Developing Minds, when Stacy Margaret Morgan arrived. She had in a matter of weeks, climbed the lofty heights of popularity to undoubtedly become our resident angel.

Stacy had everything - her family was rich; she drove her own car; she was smart, was always a straight-A student; and beautiful, if that was the limit with which to describe heaven. 

She was good or great at everything, debate team, cheer squad, thespian club, and even a photojournalist for the school's heralded rag, 'The Intellectual Tribune'. I knew almost from the start, that I couldn't compete; sure, I could fantasize about being with her, and kid myself about it happening, but that was the pipe dream. 

There were jocks galore, math wizards, charismatic posers, and yes, even a few teachers who regularly fawned over her. I personally fell into the nobody class - no jock; hated sports; no wizard; got by and was a deep thinker, but didn't want to chase the goals. In fact, I wasn't even cute or popular, but I had one redeeming quality - I was never a quitter.

So there we were in high school, and Stacy excelled, got a scholarship, was Prom Queen and lived an exemplary life. That is, of course, on the surface of it. 

I bore witness, as Stacy ruined the second-most-popular girl's reputation, with a photo exposé of a lesbian encounter, which, of course, was set up to do just that. I even watched as she threw our team under the proverbial bus, the day of the championship because she dumped the star player and wanted him to suffer, so she gave the opposing team captain the playbook.

That's the trouble with fixation; you can see the bad things, but on the scale of justice versus desire, they weigh nothing. I personally tried that last year of high school to date her twice, but she wouldn't have it. Oh, I was never really out of the picture though, for she was fully aware I had inside information about her, and I truly feel she loved stringing me along as the poor lost puppy.

In university, her shenanigans continued. Once again, she was on cheer squad, the newspaper, and debate team. Once again, she excelled and manipulated her way, seducing a married female teacher just on a bet. 

That, perhaps, was one of my greatest regrets and downfalls for I was the cameraman who recorded the evidence and had to painfully bear witness once again.

Now, I can in all honesty tell you, that being an eighteen-year-old (yes we're talking two years later), watching a bisexual eighteen-year-old female seduce a thirty-five-year-old biracial, married female was the stuff of fantasies. But this was not a fantasy, nor was it just a seduction because you wanted the other person; this amounted to nothing more than a joke.

Here she was, a spiteful little girl, planning and executing a plot to ruin someone's life. Oh nobody involved knew it was to ruin her life except, perhaps, Stacy, but that's how it played out and I fully believed it was the goal. 

Had I known, I would have stopped this, but by the time I learned the details, it had all been over. She started simply enough, feigning ignorance in the course and requiring ever-increasing help. She would ask dumb questions in class, take poor notes, and purposely get poor marks on tests. She complained she just couldn't do it, was too dumb and was always distracted because jocks just used her because she was pretty. 

Then came the after-hours tutoring, and this led to the spilled coffee. As a conniving little bitch, Stacy excelled. She set it up so the slightest jostling of her desk would cause the coffee to tip over and preplanned the direction towards herself. 

Then came feigned injury, as it splashed on her pale-blue shirt, and how she had to rip it off because of the burns. I knew for certain the coffee was not hot, but I did not know that she purposefully removed her bra, prior to the tutoring.

There was our poor victim, dabbing at the burned bare chest, as Stacy screamed and cried - a thespian, remember. This led to a long hug, then kiss, and the teacher backing away. 

Stacy would have none of that. She pursued pinning the teacher between her and the desk. Kissing, caressing and groping everywhere she could, until the teacher tried to escape over the desk. It was all in the plan though, for Stacy followed a tiny bit faster and moments later, she had reverse straddled our tiny, married victim. 

Now sitting on her chest and holding the poor woman down, Stacy shimmied back so her velvet thighs and curvaceous glutes muzzled most of the protests. Her hands meanwhile drew up the victim's skirt, and when panties came into view, her tongue attacked.

Desperately trying to escape, the teacher flailed at Stacy's hips and squirmed beneath her, but each movement allowed Stacy a little deeper and she never relented. 

Slowly, the teacher succumbed, as Stacy's tongue worked its magic. Soon the legs began parting, hips began to roll and moans replaced protests. When at last, the moans and gyrating hips had completely replaced all resistance, Stacy grabbed the thighs and forced them wide open. 

Panties were pulled unceremoniously to the side and Stacy fully engulfed her. A strong orgasm soon followed, rocking the young teacher and she lay there panting, but Stacy was not done. Capitalizing on the blissful exhaustion, she climbed off and stripped away that last vestige of decency with only a minor protest. 

Then, again, she placed herself between the shapely legs and with renewed vigor, Stacy forced the young wife to cum again. This time, it was licking, teasing and fingering that brought on the bliss, but it wasn't direct or quick. 

Stacy reveled in holding her on the edge, demanding the teacher expose her own breasts and denying release when it didn't happen.

Again and again, she kept this up, until out of sheer desire and desperation, the teacher ripped open her own blouse and bra. Tiny, little breasts with stiff, pink nipples found my lens, as buttons skittered and rolled about the classroom. Then her back suddenly arched, and she screamed she was cumming with hands buried in Stacy's hair, holding on.

Her body shone with a sweet, sweaty gleam and delicate droplets danced down the valley of those now-exposed breasts. Stacy had finally let her cum, and so intense was it, that the young teacher quivered and shook uncontrollably. 

Never in my entire life, had I witnessed such an overwhelming sight and had I not been so fixated on Stacy pocketing the moist panties; I might well have wanted to take her place. 

When the editing was done it had appeared like the teacher seduced Stacy. She had tipped over the coffee to see Stacy's breasts. She had introduced the sexual aspect by wiping away the coffee and 'feeling up' her breasts. She held Stacy in place and made her comply with a desire to cum. Stacy had become the victim, the teacher quit and was later divorced; all because of a bet, and my duplicity in videotaping the evidence. 

Sadly, Stacy ended this affair with a huge 'I'm-a-winner-party', where she played the video on loop. I realized from overheard conversations, that others had designs on this teacher and thought to use the video as a blackmail tool, so as soon as I could, I destroyed all copies. 

My part in this haunts me and, perhaps, I should be in prison for it, but I am not and there remains no evidence. I could not ask forgiveness and could not undo the doing, so I merely sent an anonymous letter to the teacher that any recorded proof had been expunged.

That moment may have been the beginning of the end for Stacy, because when you tore down all the bullshit facades, she was nothing more than a world-class brat and a bitch. Sure, at first, I tried to pretend it wasn't so, arguing she was a victim of circumstance, but it couldn't remain imaginary forever. Knowing this, didn't change anything though, I simply couldn't help but want her for an hour, a year or the rest of my life. She was my everything.

Once in our second year of university, I watched how she had begun bragging about her misdeeds, while drunk at a party. I didn't want her to get in trouble though, so as delicately as I could, I gathered her up and took her home. I recall fighting with her about her attitude, her life choices and her spoiled behavior. About letting herself go and about getting so drunk and stupid - but that was the wrong word to use. 

She literally exploded on me and had almost made me crash the car, but when I had recovered, she was staggering into the house. I recall parking the car properly and following as quickly as I could, but inside, all I saw were the great double doors at the top of the stairs closing. Before I could pursue though, Inez, the Morgan's maid, appeared with water in hand. 

I guess I felt I had no choice at this point, so I stopped and explained things. Maybe I needed to justify my presence, or alert her to the chaotic unpredictable nature of Stacy at this moment, or maybe I just needed a time to look at Inez in her semi-transparent muslin nightie.  

I say this last because I was mad, a guy (yeah that was my excuse), and I got an eyeful. I drew out the story longer than it needed to be, and requested she make a fresh pot of black coffee because this was going to be a long night, but watching her move away with the silhouette of nudity, calmed me for what was ahead.

As for Inez, I am not sure if she realized I was ogling her, but she never covered up, so perhaps, it was okay. I did know there was a bit of grumbling, and having been around this family for over four years, I chalked it up to her having to cater to a brat.

As I passed through the great double doors, the room was dark, but there on the bed, twisted in blankets, was Stacy passed out. She had managed to get out of her party dress, leaving nothing but panties and high heels, and for a moment, I just stood there, staring. 

When I finally came forward, my hand gravitated towards her thigh and I let it. Caressing her bare leg was a dream I had had for years, and reality didn't disappoint. Silken perfection possessed me, and urged me to continue, but it was the barely audible moan that prevented reason.

I was a prisoner of desire, following my instincts and destiny. How could I have stopped when her thighs parted, opening ever more to receive my love? Then the moment of truth came, as I managed to stroke the fine gusset of her panties.

Another moan endorsed my action, so I tugged at the leg opening and stroked lightly over the baby smooth mound, before leaning in and tasting her essence. 

How glorious it was, too.

Lost in the dream of finally having my love, I licked and probed at the ever-moistening lips. Hips started rocking in time with the deeper thrusts, and I knew the culmination of desires was upon me.

I knew my cock was already hard and anxious to plunge into the depths, but I just couldn't let go yet. The more I licked, the more I wanted, and soon two fingers joined the fray. Together with my tongue, which drove teasing pleasures around the sweet bud of passion, they danced and squirmed in a well of desire.

Her hips, now fully rising and falling off the bed, seemed to echo the gasps and pants heard in the tangle of blankets. Suddenly, they jerked up as high as they could, quivering in the air, before slamming down again. Hot, bouncy spasms rocked her body and I watched with awe and pride, as they slowly lessened in intensity, leaving behind just wet, glistening thighs, parted obscenely.

I had imagined it was her first real orgasm and wasn't about to let her forget, so I whipped out my cock and dragged it through the super-wet lips. Two passes was all it took, before her body responded and I was slipping inside. I thrust like my life depended on it, again and again, driving in deeply, only to return. Soft moans turned loud, and soon her body matched my rhythm.

I was so out of breath when I felt that great rush-- the first, hot spasm of orgasm from my engorged cock. I slammed it home and just hung on, reveling in the glorious feeling of my cock emptying its load deep inside. I felt Stacy's pussy respond, sucking, gripping and milking me dry.

I was in heaven, the culmination of dreams, and the physical release accorded sexual gratification. I wanted to spend the night with her, so that as she awoke and understood her sexual awakening, she would realize I was the cause, but I chose not to. There was simply too much at stake. Slowly, when my strength returned, I slipped out of her and pulled my pants back on, but all the while, I kept looking and that body kept calling to me. 

I returned thinking, just one more taste, and this time her pussy and thighs were not only wet from excitement and orgasm, but from my load, as well. 

I didn't care. 

I was determined, horny, out of control. Every time that sweet pussy jerked or rolled from my onslaught of passion, I redoubled my efforts for the sensations fed a longing within. I knew I couldn't stop if I wanted, and finally after a long, long time, she seemed to cum once more.

I could feel her body slick and clammy from the experience and knew I was finally complete. Whether she remembered or not, I would always know she came three times from me, and not some jock or rich wannabe.

Silently, I slipped into the bathroom of her suite and cleaned myself up, but as I was about to return, I heard Inez.

"Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Morgan? I brought those things you asked for and a bit of lotion. Perhaps a massage will help you relax?"What did she mean 'Mrs. Morgan', I wondered, as a mumbled response sounded out.

"I brought those migraine tablets, and some water, but your daughter's friend brought her home very drunk and needed hot coffee. Curious, though. He's gone, and she's passed out in the tub."

I took a chance and peered through the ajar bathroom door, seeing Inez softly fondling her mistress's thigh. It appeared to me she was fixated on the lush body, but she continued, "Hey, are you okay? You're soaking wet and covered in sweat. Do you need me to call a doctor?"

Inez's own thighs were parted, and you could almost make out the tender wisps of her womanhood. Her nipples were pressing anxiously against the thin cloth, and I watched carefully as she chickened out at the last moment, before stroking the super-wet pussy. 

Slowly, Mrs. Morgan tried to extricate herself from the blankets, her hair and eyes were wild and as she sat up. Seeing or acknowledging Inez, she said, "Oh Inez, I had the most embarrassing dream. Mr. Morgan..." but then her thoughts trailed off. 

For just a moment, she seemed to scrutinize Inez, then down at her own body before performing a perfunctory covering up. "Never mind, Inez. I'll..." but again she trailed off. Finally, as though she needed time to contemplate what this meant, Mrs. Morgan finished with, "That will be all for tonight."

I wondered, at that moment, what each of them thought. Had Mrs. Morgan felt her excitement was from a dream, or Mr. Morgan, or the ministrations of Inez?

Had Inez been too preoccupied with her own lust, or had she thought about Mr. Morgan, an illness, or possibly deduced my involvement? Certainly, she knew I was in the house, and that her mistress had the appearance of sexual conquest.

In the end, I never knew and chasing those theories would take this story in an entirely new direction, so I'll return to the facts. 

I watched how Inez carefully put down the tablets, water, lotion and excused herself, pausing ever so briefly at the door, to steal a last memory. The light from the hall made her nightie fully transparent, which my eyes took in with hormonal lust, but I wondered was she thinking why or yum?

Once the door closed, Mrs. Morgan fully untangled herself from the blankets and looked at her own body. Her hands seemed to roam over the sweat-soaked form, and paused for a moment at the slick wetness between her thighs. She looked at her fingers, brought them to her nose, then carefully tasted... and I knew she knew. 

Suddenly, I got very nervous and quickly stepped back behind the barrier of the door. An equally quick survey told me there was nowhere to hide, and although it did have a large window above the tub, it was very unlikely I could get it open and escape. I was trapped and bound to be caught. Just then, the door began opening while I tried to be as flat as the wallpaper behind it. Directly past me, Mrs. Morgan strode, headed for the shower and I acted. One smooth, stealthy motion found me around the door and back in her bedroom; then a quick review had me opening the balcony door. I didn't waste any time closing it, but instead, carefully vaulted over the railing, then lowered myself for a hanging drop on the patio below. Motion sensor lights then flooded the backyard, and in panic, I ran.

It had been such a long night, but even as I scurried away, the realization came, Stacy had not been mine. I had no choice, I had to start again.

Perhaps two weeks after her drunken fiasco, Stacy decided to throw a pre-summer holiday bash even though I had warned her against it. She invited everyone, and I naturally felt I had to be there, both to protect her, should alcohol become the tongue-wagging demon again, or opportunities arise, where I could fulfill my destiny. 

My adventure with Mrs. Morgan's prone, helpless form told me I had no moral objection to satisfying my desires by any means possible. If I had to take Stacy while drunk or drugged, that would be okay, and if I had to accomplish this through subterfuge, no problem.

The party, itself, was a loud drunken affair and instead of hooking up with Stacy, I succumbed to the wiles of her best friend, Emily. You see, in the midst of drunken dancing, Emily fell into the pool. 

Now sometimes, I can be such a fool. I had known Emily for longer than I knew Stacy. She was always there, the proverbial tomboy doing guy stuff, following us, playing our games, roughhousing, whatever was going on, she'd be up for it. Emily was like my own shadow, so I guess when I saw her fall in, instinct triggered a need to rescue her. 

As I attempted to encircle her with my arm, my hand slipped inside her blouse and encountered a bare breast. It was full, hot, with a super-hard nipple and I, of course, immediately tried to extricate and apologize. Emily, though, had other ideas for she shrieked held onto my hand through the blouse, and playfully shouted, "Rape, rape!" followed by laughter.

Naturally, everyone was laughing and tossing comments, as I finally gave up and just pulled her to the ladder; that is, everyone but Stacy. 

She looked pissed!

Once out of the pool, Emily and I looked like a couple of drowned rats with clothes that clung like a wrinkled second skin. The comedic barbs kept flying, accented now by our appearance, but above that din came Stacy's voice. "Stop it, right now! You two get to the pool house and dry off. You look ridiculous!"

She really was pissed and I still couldn't comprehend why, but complying seemed like the best answer. It might well have been a cakewalk, too; had either Stacy or myself contemplated the folly of sending us together.

It began simple enough, though. I had retrieved towels and tossed one at Emily, but she wasn't paying attention and it fell over her head. Temporarily, she was blinded; okay, it was more of a disorientation, but she staggered forward and bounced off a closet door and then reeled back. For the second time that night, I lunged to rescue her and prevent the impending fall, when suddenly my hands filled with her bare breasts.