Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Still, I reach for the last reserve of strength inside of me and shout her name, “Scout,” listening to that single syllable echo through the misty pines.
Nothing.
No one answers.
Oddly, I still have the sensation of being watching. Could it be the police? Preparing to take me down? Take me somewhere and question me about my eternal obsession with Scout? No, they wouldn’t be holding back like this, watching me in silence. They would move in and arrest me. My imagination has been turned upside down, just like the rest of me. But I’m positive that as soon as I return to my apartment, the police will be there, cuffs at the ready.
I’m almost eager for that outcome, simply so I can find out where Scout is located. If she’s all right. If she called the police, at least I know she’s safe—and I will be back out on the streets in no time, more than willing to violate whatever protective order she slaps on me.
But when I get home, there are no police.
There is nothing but quiet.
There is a buzz of electricity in the air, though. A charged silence.
Cautiously, I unlock my apartment door and push it open—immediately catching the scent of her perfume. And it’s not lingering from earlier. No. This is fresh. She was here. She was fucking here. With a bellow building in my throat, I stumble into the apartment and draw up short, my chest nearly caving in at the sight that greets me. A fresh bouquet of pink peonies sits in a vase on my kitchen table.
Pink peonies. Scout’s favorite flower.
“What the fuck…” I rasp, gently touching the petals that remind me so much of her skin.
That’s when I notice the envelope.
My fingers are numb as I pick up the white square and open the flap. Inside, there is a Polaroid picture of me looking out into the woods. Taken only an hour ago. Less.
Time seems to freeze around me.
There are only the harsh intakes and exhales of my breath, the buzz inside of my skull. I look down at the picture and know…I know Scout took it. It wasn’t my imagination. She was watching me from inside the cover of the trees. And she hasn’t called the police. Nor her brother, who would definitely be here by now, demanding answers.
What does this mean?
I don’t know, but my pulse is beginning to clamor. Eagerly.
With anticipation. With awe.
My God, is Scout…stalking me back?
Suddenly I wish more than anything else in the world for her to be standing in front of me, because I would put her over my knee and spank the breath out of her. I’d paddle that ass until it bore my handprint for a week. Who the fuck does she think she is? I’m outraged and pissed and…enlivened and turned on. Proud. I’m proud of her. I’m worshipful and I want to teach her a lesson, all at the same time. My love for this woman is a constantly shifting enigma and it just got a whole lot vaster. Deeper.
I can feel myself slip past obsession into something even more dangerous. All encompassing. She becomes a part of me, as vital as my beating heart.
Desperate to see if she left any other trace of herself, I walk slowly into my bedroom and find another Polaroid in the center of the bed. Pulse going haywire, I dive for the photo and snatch it up, groaning brokenly when I see it’s a picture of Scout from the waist down. She’s lifting her skirt just enough to let me see her panties, the tops of her shy, sexy thighs.
I’m on my hands and knees on the bed and suddenly, I’m grunting, unzipping my pants and beating off into my fist, my attention fastened on the picture. Imagining that I’m thrusting into Scout, instead of my own hand. Picturing her virgin blood on my cock as it slicks in and out of her tight hole, the way she pouts over the pressure of my cock’s invasion, her green eyes slowly becoming bright with need as she’s broken in, the mattress springs creaking underneath us, faster, faster as I begin to buck harder, sweating. I spit onto the photograph and stroke my fist up and down my dick, the bottom of my spine starting to tighten, my balls squeezing.
Scout is stalking me.
Does that mean she’s equally obsessed?
“Oh fuck,” I pant, that possibility too much for me to handle and I let out jets of come all over the Polaroid, my ass pumping, flexing and holding, trying to get all the lust out, but Jesus, I’m still hard when it’s all over. I see. There’s no such thing as full satisfaction without Scout. Without her pussy, I’m destined to remain this way, hard, searching, miserable, aching. “Come back to me,” I shout down at the photograph covered in my seed. “I won’t survive one more day of this. You will kill me. Is that what you want?”