Confession: The Stalking of a Doll
You open your email and his words make you instantly close it. It’s the shame of liking what he’s written that makes your face blush. The texts that he’s sent and you never asked for give you those tiny bumps up your arms. You squeal into the pillow, squeezing your thighs together. The gall of what he says on public sites, right out in front of everyone, leaves you slack-jawed. You look around in public. You’re sure that people near you have seen the same words and worse – can smell the wetness of your cunt. Each word is for you – to push you. Sometimes it’s a secret Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes he enjoys the humiliation that he knows you endure just to get receive a message. You live on his time. Even if only to pretend, you are his. When you shove your fingers in your cunt, re-reading all that he’s written – you are his. He stalks you. Making you his. You let him. In silence.
This sounds delightful. Sort of like having a stalker, except he knows you know what he’s saying and he loves how much you like it…very hot.
It’s wicked hot to me. I don’t know why my disturbed mind likes it… *shrugs*