Steve Has a Stalker
An imagined romantic connection in a crowded bar prompts a woman to stalk a man she’s never met. She writes him long letters detailing the delicious things they would do to each other—in the ladies’ room, under the foosball table, and in the parking lot, if only they’d said hello.
Steve had just drifted off when his wife shook him awake from a dead sleep.
“Steve,” Phoebe said in a panic, “someone’s in the house.”
He bolted up in bed. “What?”
“I just heard thumping down the hall.” She panted in terror.
Steve was already at the bedroom door with a flashlight in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. He peeked down the hallway, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.
Another thump sent Phoebe straight to the closet to hide. Steve adjusted his grip on the bat and crept into the hallway, toward the laundry room where he heard another loud noise.
“Phoebe! Call 9-1-1!”
He paused outside the laundry room and took a deep breath before turning the knob slowly from the side of the door frame, jumping back out of sight as the door opened. He waited another beat before whipping his flashlight beam into the room, counting on blinding the intruder. He counted to three under his breath and then leapt into the room, leading with the baseball bat.
“Gotcha!” he roared loudly enough for the next-door neighbor to hear.
But no one was there.
He went to the window and peered through the glass but saw nothing until the light from the upstairs bedroom next door went on. Steve opened the window.
“Jones! There’s someone in your yard! He ran around back! I just called the cops!”
Just as Steve turned to run back to the bedroom to protect his wife, glass shattered struck fear through Steve’s heart. He sprinted down the hall, praying he’d make it in time.
Slamming the door open, he flipped on the light switch, stopping in his tracks at the glass all over the hardwood floor.
“Steve!” He looked up to see his wife with a knife at her throat, a platinum blonde with a crazy smile hanging onto her.
“Stay still, Phoebe,” Steve said as calmly as he could muster. “Who are you?”
“Are you serious?” the woman said, her smile disappearing into a snarl.
“I’m sorry. Have we met?” Her hair was a brassier, messier version of his wife’s, as if she’d taken his wife’s photo to the hairdresser with her and requested The Phoebe.
Sexcerpt (XXX if available):
You take care of the fasteners on my bra, releasing my heavy breasts into your hands. You wrap one hand around the side of each mound, and now you rub both nipples at the same time, your thumbs moving in slow circles. You pull me toward you, your hands guiding my breasts to your open mouth. You latch onto my nipple like a newborn suckling life force from his mother, making me cry out with arousal and a little bit of pain.
But I like the pain.
You continue devouring me as your hand goes under my skirt and slides up my thigh. I part my legs to allow you access, and your other hand goes to my ass. You bite my nipple hard, making me squeal, and I wonder if Mickey heard. He disappeared a while ago, and I don’t care if he hears me or not. In fact, I want him to know. I want the DJ to watch. I want everyone to see me fuck the man of my dreams, but the bar is empty.
Not hesitating for a second, you tug at my satin panties. You don’t even stop to look at them. You pull them down to my thighs, leaving them there. I wonder for a second if you’ll take me over your knee and spank me for being such a naughty girl since my panties remain at that particularly awkward spot on my legs. I wait, expecting your hand to pull me to your side. Expecting your palm between my shoulder blades, forcing me face down across your lap, ready to begin swatting my bare bottom.