Chapter 12: October 29 - Your Halloween Stalker

Hello my sweet little problem,

Those orange lights were still glowing after eleven, and I stood across the street staring at them until I started feeling like the pathetic one in this arrangement. My hands were actually shaking, sweetheart, and I want that on the record because you should know what you're doing to me now. I have broken into your apartment, hidden six feet away while you got yourself off and stolen underwear you later found out I wrapped around my cock, yet apparently the thing that finally makes me nervous is you deliberately leaving a light on because you want me to come closer.

I waited until the apartment had been quiet for almost an hour, then came inside wearing my black mask because you invited the man from the letters, not the face underneath it. The orange lights were still glowing over the bookshelf, and when I reached the bedroom I saw the ribbon tied in a neat little bow around the bedpost and you asleep with the black sleep mask covering your eyes. I stood there looking at that bow, then at your covered eyes, and had to remind myself that the entire reason this felt so good was because you had chosen it.

I turned the lights off for you before I sat down because I know you hate sleeping with them glowing all night, then I touched your ankle through the blanket exactly the way I said I would and waited when you shifted. Once your breathing settled I moved the hair away from your mouth, let my fingers rest against your hand for a few seconds and finally put two fingers over the inside of your wrist. Your pulse was steady under them, and sweetheart, I don't have a clever fucking line for what that did to me. Yesterday I got myself off with your black lace in my hand and somehow sitting there feeling your heart beat while you slept was the thing that made me feel more exposed.

I wanted more. Christ, I wanted more badly enough that my jaw hurt from keeping still. I wanted to put my mouth against your wrist, crawl beneath the blanket and find out whether your body would react to me before the rest of you woke, and I wanted to touch every place I had spent the last week writing about. But I didn't. You hadn't agreed to any of that for the real visit, so I kept my hands exactly where I had promised they would stay, left the ribbon tied to the bedpost, left the sleep mask exactly where you had put it and got the fuck out before wanting became an excuse. I'm telling you because I need you to understand that I meant what I said yesterday. You gave me permission to be there and to touch four specific places. That was all I did.

This morning you woke up, pushed the sleep mask onto your forehead and immediately looked at the ribbon before touching your wrist. Then you smiled, slow and private, and whatever progress I had made toward behaving like a functioning adult died right there. Your friend called not long after and you answered. You didn't tell her about last night, which I understand, but you apologized for shutting her out and she apologized for trying to tell you what you were allowed to feel. When she said she still thought you were making a terrible mistake, you answered, 'Maybe. It's still mine to make,' and I had to sit the fuck down because apparently you choosing me in tiny, deliberate pieces is going to be what finally ruins me.

And now I need to ask you something I absolutely should not be asking twenty-four hours after proving I can sit beside your sleeping body without taking more than you offered. Have you ever fantasized about sleep-play for real, pretty girl? I mean the version where you tell a man while you're fully awake exactly what you want him to be allowed to do after you fall asleep, then you go to bed knowing he might want you badly enough to start before you wake. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to surface already deep in pleasure because the man beside you had been too desperate for you to wait, with every part of it something you had asked him for beforehand? Would waking to my mouth between your thighs turn you on? Would knowing you had given me permission to be inside you before your eyes ever opened make that first confused, sleepy second hotter instead of frightening? Fuck, sweetheart, I have been asking myself those questions all day and none of the answers in my head are helping me behave.

Because the honest answer is that I would not be able to wait.

Let me tell you exactly what I mean by that, sweetheart, because this is the fantasy I have been circling since I sat beside you last night with two fingers on your wrist and your pulse steady underneath them like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. This isn't something I did. I need you to understand that before you read another word. Last night I kept every promise I made you, and I am telling you this fantasy tonight because I want you to know what I am asking before I ask it.

If you had told me beforehand, while you were fully awake and looking at me, exactly what you wanted me to be allowed to do, I think it would have broken something loose in me that has no business being broken.

Here is what I keep imagining.

You would have already told me what you wanted.

That's the part I keep coming back to, the part that makes the fantasy different from every other filthy thing I've written you. Not me deciding. You deciding, while you were awake and clear-headed and looking straight at me, telling me exactly what you wanted to happen after you closed your eyes. That conversation is yours and I'm not going to put words in your mouth here. But in my head you were specific, sweetheart. You didn't hedge or soften it into a suggestion. You told me what you wanted and you held my gaze the whole time you were saying it, and the fact that you could do that without looking away once told me everything I needed to know about how long you'd been thinking about it.

So I would come in after you'd been asleep long enough that your breathing had gone deep and slow.

I would stand in the doorway for a moment, just watching you, because I think that first sight of you would be almost too much. Hair across the pillow. One shoulder bare where the blanket had shifted. Your mouth slightly open the way it gets when you've fully let go of the day. And I would know, standing there, that you had fallen asleep thinking about this. That the last conscious thing in your head was the knowledge that I might already be on my way.

That thought alone would make it nearly impossible to move slowly.

But I would, because I'd want to feel every second of it.

I would slowly pull down the covers, making sure not to wake you. Each inch of revealed skin would test my control—the curve of your collarbone, the rise and fall of your chest, the soft expanse of your stomach. As much as I would want to kiss all of that beautiful skin, map every inch with my mouth until I'd memorized you, I would focus on trying to give you as much pleasure as I could before you woke.

I would gently pull down your underwear, taking my time sliding the fabric down your thighs, over your knees, past your ankles. Then I would softly kiss your inner thigh, working my way up slowly, breathing you in. The sweet scent of your pussy would make me pause, just for a moment, before I got my first taste of that sweetness.

And fuck, sweetheart, that's where the fantasy gets dangerous.

Because I keep wondering: could I make you come without waking you up? Could I wring multiple orgasms from you with my mouth while you slept, each one building on the last until your body was humming with sensation even before your mind caught up? Would I be able to push my cock deep inside you before you woke, so that the first thing you became aware of was being full of me, your body already responding, already moving against me?

Would you wake confused and overwhelmed, pleasure already cresting through you? Would you remember in that first hazy second that you had asked for this, or would there be a moment of disorientation before recognition settled in and you realized you were getting exactly what you'd wanted?

I think about you reaching for me, not sure yet if you're still dreaming. I think about the sound you'd make when you finally understood that this was real, that I had been between your thighs for who knows how long, learning exactly what makes you shake.

But that's just a fantasy, sweetheart, and it will remain only a fantasy until you tell me you want that and we sit and have that conversation.

The one with you looking me in the eye and telling me exactly what you want me to be allowed to do later. I wouldn't have to guess or convince myself silence meant something convenient. You would decide the rules before your head ever touched the pillow, and I would get to spend the whole fucking night knowing you trusted me to follow them even while I was losing my mind over you. I'd be unbearable about that kind of trust, sweetheart. I'm already unbearable with far less encouragement.

So think about it. You don't owe me an answer tonight and you definitely don't owe me another invitation just because last night went exactly the way I promised. If the idea does nothing for you, fine, I'll survive being disappointed like a grown fucking man. If it does turn you on, though, I want you to sit with that without immediately deciding it makes you weird, dirty or too much.

Yours, and getting more fucked in the head about you by the hour.

P.S. I turned off your lights because you were asleep and I know you'd have complained about wasting electricity in the morning. Yes, apparently I can stalk you and still have opinions about your power bill.