I stepped onto the campus, backpack slung over one shoulder, and felt the pulse of it: the distant hum of air conditioners, the scrape of sneakers across concrete. My chest tightened. Today was the start of college.

ASU, my first class. Freshman orientation had been a blur of names and pamphlets, but now it was the real thing. The classroom doors opened, and I stepped in, scanning for a familiar face, or maybe just the one face that mattered.

And there she was.

Madeline.

She laughed at something one of her classmates said, that soft, easy sound that somehow pulled me across the room even from twenty feet away. Her hair caught the sunlight through the window, a glossy brown that slid over her shoulders like silk. A simple smiley face T-shirt and jeans, just enough to blend with the crowd, but it didn’t matter. She could have worn a paper bag, and I would have noticed her anyway.

Her eyes: brown, flecked with amber, though I only caught glimpses, sparkled as she tilted her head, leaning into the joke. The curve of her smile, the lift of her shoulders, the way her fingers draped over the edge of her notebook… I could have memorized every detail. I had been doing it for years, since high school: every glance across a classroom, every casual word, stored and replayed until they blurred together into something more. Already, my thoughts circled, unrelenting, an internal whisper I didn’t dare voice: She has no idea I exist. But I notice everything.

I slid into an empty seat near the back, trying not to stare too obviously, but my gaze kept darting to her. Her laugh punctuated the air again, and I felt a rush, subtle and intoxicating. Every time she moved, even to flip a page or adjust her bag, it was a rhythm my mind couldn’t leave alone.

The room buzzed with new-student energy: pens scratching, chairs scraping, murmured greetings, but my world narrowed to her. I noticed the way the sunlight played along the curve of her neck, the slight crease of concentration when she took notes. The way she bit the corner of her pen as she laughed. Tiny, unconscious gestures that should have meant nothing, but to me, they were everything.

And I hated myself for it, even though I couldn’t look away.

The first class passed in a haze. I couldn’t have told you what the professor said. Something about syllabi, attendance policies, and required texts. My pen moved, but my eyes drifted. Every time I caught her smile, the flutter in my chest returned. And then it ended too soon: she stood, gathered her things, and left with a small group of people I didn’t know. I stayed seated longer than necessary, pretending to organize my notes, just to watch her go.

The next class was across campus. I walked fast, scanning faces, hoping she’d appear in the doorway. She didn’t. The room felt colder without her, the hum of the air conditioner only making it worse. I tried to focus, but every tap of my pen dragged her back… was she in class now? Laughing across the quad? The thought of her somewhere I couldn’t see gnawed at me.

By the third class, my chest was tight with that same mix of anticipation and dread. Still no Madeline. My eyes kept flicking to the door long after it was clear she wasn’t coming.

Between classes, I drifted past the lawn full of students, the bookstore with its wall of gold and maroon shirts, and the sound of a guitar I couldn’t place. The smell from the cafeteria hit as soon as I stepped inside. I scanned the room automatically. Groups hunched over trays and laptops. No Madeline.

I told myself I was just killing time, but I found myself taking the long route between buildings, detouring through the library. The cool, dry air smelled of dust and paper, the kind of place that swallowed sound. I walked past rows of books and half-filled study tables, scanning faces I didn’t care about, just in case hers appeared.

By late afternoon, I’d stopped pretending. I was looking for her: in the flow of bodies between classes, at the vending machines, by the water fountains. Every time I thought I saw her: a flash of brown hair, a tilt of the head, my heart leapt, only to fall again when it wasn’t her.

When I finally spotted her, it wasn’t in a classroom. She was outside, standing with another girl near the fountain, laughing about something I couldn’t hear. Her hair was pulled back, the curve of her neck bare, skin gleaming faintly with sweat. As she shifted, her arm lifted, and for a split second the strap of her bra slipped into view: thin, pale against her skin. I caught myself staring like it was some forbidden glimpse no one else noticed. The heat shimmered off the concrete, but all I felt was that flash seared into me.

I kept my distance, drifting past like I wasn’t slowing down, like my chest wasn’t thudding from something as small as a strip of fabric. Then she turned away, and the moment was gone. I walked on, pretending I hadn’t just memorized another secret detail.

--- 🐺 ---

The first week blurred: classrooms, cafeteria lines, overheated walks across the quad. Sometimes she appeared. More often, she didn't.

When she did, the day bent toward her. A glimpse of her shoulders under a cotton top, sunlight flashing through her hair… suddenly everything felt lighter.

When she didn’t, the hours dragged. I found myself staring at doorways, stalling on the lawn, hoping she’d cross my path. Without her, the days felt wasted.

By week’s end, I knew more than I wanted to admit: most of her schedule, the corner of the library she claimed, the side door she slipped through at the business building. Even her laugh carried down crowded halls like a thread I couldn’t stop following.

Once or twice, I did follow. Not close. Just enough to keep her in sight: through the palms by the main lawn, past the vending machines in the courtyard. Watching the little things: the tilt of her head when she texted, the quick flick of her hand brushing hair back from her.

But the campus wasn’t enough.

We’d gone to the same high school; she barely knew I existed, but I remembered the rough shape of her neighborhood. One evening, after class, I was behind the wheel without a plan. The sun hung low, burnt orange over Scottsdale, the streets heavy under its heat.

I told myself I was just driving. Letting the heat and the hum of the engine unwind me. But my route curved toward the neighborhoods I half-remembered. Rows of stucco houses with tidy xeriscaped yards. The palo verde trees rustled in the dry breeze.

I didn’t know her exact address: just the park she used to mention, the frozen yogurt place by the strip mall. I drifted slowly through the grid, scanning sidewalks, driveways, and porches.

Then… a girl with dark hair stepping off the curb. My pulse jumped, hands tightening on the wheel. But as she turned, the face was wrong. Not her.

I circled again. Another flash of brown hair by a mailbox, a figure in jeans. My chest clenched, my breath paused— only to sink as she bent into a car I didn’t recognize. Each false start wound me tighter, each almost-her pulling me further in. Past the park. Around the block. Again..

The sun bled out, shadows stretching long. Streetlights blinked awake. I told myself to head home, that this was pointless. My hands didn’t listen. One more loop. Just in case.

And then… half an hour in, almost dark… There she was.

Madeline.

She stood in the front yard of a single-story house, bare feet on the grass, a glass of something cold in her hand. The warm porch light softened the edges of her hair, turned her skin to gold. She was talking to a man standing in the driveway next door.

He was washing a car, one of those deep blue sedans that looked expensive without needing to try. The guy was clean-cut, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the kind of presence that took up space without asking. I could see it even from where I slowed the car at the intersection: an ease in the way he leaned against the hood, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth when she said something.

And her.

It wasn’t anything obvious, but I could read the shift in her. The subtle shift in her stance, the slow way she tilted her head when she spoke, how her free hand traced idle patterns along her glass. She laughed softly, glanced toward the street once, then back at him. The air between them seemed warmer than the night around it.

A sour heat settled in my chest. I didn’t even know if it was jealousy or something else… something heavier. I parked at the end of the cross street. From here, I could watch without being seen.

They stayed like that for a while, him wiping the last streaks from the hood, her sipping slowly, their conversation drifting in low tones I couldn’t catch. She played with the hem of her T-shirt once, tucking it back against her hip. He grinned at something she said.

Eventually, she drained the glass, gave a small wave, and turned toward her own front door. I watched her disappear inside. The porch light clicked off. The man gathered his things and went in too.

I didn’t start the car right away.

The street was quiet: just the distant rush of traffic from the main road, the occasional flicker of a TV through a neighbor’s window. Her house sat there, calm and dark, as if nothing had happened. But in my head, the scene replayed.

Not him… me.

I leaned back in the seat, breathing slowly, my pulse loud in my ears. The heat inside the car clung to my skin, thick and unmoving, but I didn’t roll the window down. I wanted it closed, wanted the press of it, the way it made my shirt stick to my chest and my body hum.

In my head, she was still outside under the porch light, her bare toes curling in the grass, the glow softening her edges. I pictured her looking at me… not at him, with that faint, shy smile that carried something else under it. Something meant for me alone.

My hand moved lower, slipping under my waistband, and the rush of contact made my breath stop. I didn’t look down. I kept my gaze on her darkened windows, letting the shape of her house be a placeholder for her, as if she could feel me watching from here.

In the fantasy, I didn’t wait for her. I caught her wrist and drew her in, her glass tumbling into the grass, forgotten. She gasped, soft and sharp, as I pressed her back against the hood of the car. The garden hose lay spilling across the lawn, its spray misting the air, streaking rivulets down the metal, beading against her skin as her T-shirt clung wet to her curves. She looked up at me, eyes bright, lips parting in a teasing invitation.

I brushed her hair back from her face, my fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, tilting her chin so I could catch the fire in her amber eyes. My hand slid to her waist, holding her close but gently, as if the rest of the street had faded away. She shifted against me, her thighs brushing together, the hem of her shorts inching higher, a quiet, teasing invitation that didn’t need words.

I stroked harder, faster, matching the frantic beat of her breath in my head, every nerve stretched thin as wire. Heat built deep, low in my gut, dragging up my spine in molten waves. My balls tightened, heavy and aching, my thighs clamped hard against the seat, muscles trembling under the strain. The world outside blurred to nothing: just the slick slide of my fist, the desperate sound of her moan echoing through me.

Her moan filled me: ragged, desperate, and the pressure snapped. My orgasm tore through me in savage pulses, cock jerking in my grip, thick streams spilling hot over my knuckles, over my T-shirt. Each spasm wrung me out, left me raw, shaking, my chest heaving like I was drowning in her. My vision swam, breath ragged, every last drop of me ripped free until I was slumped back, ruined by it. And still, in the shuddering aftermath, I groaned her name into the dark, needing her to hear it... needing her to know she had taken everything.

And then the fear hit. My chest heaved, sweat sticking me to the upholstery. The windshield blurred with condensation, with darkness. The thought of someone walking past, catching me here like this. Her porch stayed dark. The house silent. But my hands shook as I shoved them back onto the steering wheel, my pulse thundering like I’d been caught in the act.

Still, in the afterimage behind my eyes, she was there: sprawled across the hood, wet shirt clinging, gaze locked to mine, like she’d let me take everything I wanted.

--- 🐺 ---

Over the next few weeks, everything else blurred. Lectures became background noise; assignments felt irrelevant. My mind circled back to her constantly: how she might look stepping out of the shower, towel wrapped around her hips, hair damp and heavy against her neck.

Passing her on campus wasn’t enough anymore. I lingered near the library, just to see her walk past, earbuds in, head tilted to the sun. Chance became habit.

I tracked more than her smile or laugh. Parking lots, paths home, the exact shade of her lipstick on Thursdays. Tiny details that formed a map, one leading straight to her life beyond campus.

The hunger grew. I drove past her neighborhood, timing lights, shadows, curtains, hands tight on the wheel. The fantasy had spilled into reality, pushing me closer each night, until I could no longer pretend I wasn’t following.

--- 🐺 ---

The rain had come down steadily for hours, the kind that didn’t belong in Arizona. The city had looked washed-out and hollow, its streets slick enough to mirror the streetlights. My hoodie had clung to my shoulders, the hem soaked through.

I had ducked into Zorba’s Adult Shop mostly out of habit, and partly out of boredom. I’d told myself I was just looking: maybe a DVD or a toy I didn’t really need, but the truth was, I liked the quiet of places like this. The smell of vinyl and faint musk. The way the aisles had hummed with a kind of low-level shame and want.

I had pushed through the door, plastic bag swinging at my side, the amber light from inside spilling ahead of me. The rain had swallowed it almost instantly, turning everything back to gray.

And that’s when I saw her.

At first, it was just a figure in the shadows: jeans clinging wet to long legs, hair damp and sticking to her cheek. I had walked past, the rain soft on my hood, telling myself it was just someone heading in out of the weather.

But the way she had shifted, the way she had tilted her chin toward the light… It had snagged something deep in my memory.

Madeline.

My Madeline.

The thought had punched through me hard enough that I’d slowed, but I hadn’t turned. Not right away. I had let the distance stretch, the rain pattering steadily against my ears. My pulse had been loud.

Half a block away, I’d stopped. Stared into the dark, wet pavement. Then I’d turned, like it hadn’t been a decision but a gravity I couldn’t fight.

The rain had still been sliding off my hood when I’d stepped back inside Zorba’s. The air had tinged with a mix of cheap perfume, plastic, and dust.

For that hour, the place was busier than usual. Most of the customers had clustered toward the far side, hunched over racks of boxed toys, murmuring to each other in low, guilty voices.

At the counter, a heavyset guy had flipped through a magazine. Thick arms folded across his chest, a faded tattoo curling out from the sleeve of his shirt. His eyes hadn’t lifted when the door had shut behind me. Indifferent. Detached.

Above his head, that same deflated sheep with the googly eyes had hung from the ceiling, bobbing faintly in the draft from the old AC. It was ridiculous. It always had been. Somehow, that was part of Zorba's charm.

I had scanned the aisles slowly. The hum of the fluorescents had blended with the rain’s muted hiss against the front windows. And then…

Madeline stood near the back, in the lingerie section. Her damp hair had spilled over one shoulder, the hem of her top still clinging in dark patches from the storm.

She had been talking to the shop assistant, a woman in a pale mint-green sweater that seemed almost wrong under the buzzing fluorescent lights, like she didn’t belong there but somehow owned the space. Black, high-waisted pants tucked into scuffed boots give her a stance that’s casual, but deliberate. Something in the tilt of her head made my stomach tighten.

Her eyes flicked to me once, just a brush of acknowledgment, and for a moment, I felt the cold, electric certainty that she could see everything. Like she could see through me, read the traces of my desire before I’d even tried to hide them. I’m flushed, suddenly aware of my hands, the phone in my pocket, the way I’m holding my breath.

There’s a quiet magnetism about her, too, something that draws attention without asking for it. And I realized… If she looked at me the right way, just once, she could unravel me. That thought made my pulse jump, a sharp, thrilling warning, and I suddenly wondered if I’m the only predator in this room.

Madeline leaned closer to the rack, fingers brushing the soft lace of a black camisole. She smiled at something the assistant said, that slow, curling smile I had seen once before and hadn’t been able to forget.

I stayed where I was, half-hidden between a display of DVDs and a rack of lubes, letting the storm outside fade into nothing but the blood pounding in my ears. I watched the assistant too: the way she shifted, eyes flicking in Madeline’s direction, that deliberate magnetism I couldn’t stop noticing. Something about her made my skin tighten. She could see me here, right now, doing what I shouldn’t be doing.

Eventually, movement in the far corner caught my eye, behind a partition that barely passed for a dressing room. The thin curtain shifted, and Madeline stepped out.

For a moment, I thought the lighting was playing tricks, but no… my brain scrambled to keep up with what my eyes were feeding it. The cups of the bra barely held her, black lace clinging to curves it had no business hiding. Satin ribbons traced across her skin like they had been tied for someone to undo slowly. My mouth went dry.

She moved with a lazy, unhurried confidence, adjusting a strap digging slightly into her shoulder. The air between us thickened. My gaze dropped lower.

The thong, if you could call it that, sat high over her hips, a thin scrap of lace barely framing her. And there, over that perfect split, rested a tiny silver bell.

I didn’t breathe.

When she shifted her weight, the bell chimed: soft, clear, absurdly pure for something so indecent. My gut tightened. I imagined leaning in, pressing my mouth there, feeling the cool metal against my lips.

All the while, I couldn’t stop sensing her world wasn’t mine alone. The assistant moved too: deliberate, calculating— a predator circling closer than I was. The thought twisted inside me, sharp and delicious: two people, both watching her, both tasting the same air. And I stayed in the shadows, caught between lust and fear, my pulse threatening to give me away.

Almost without thinking, my hand slid into my hoodie pocket. My phone was already there. I hesitated, pulse hammering against my ribs, then angled it just enough to catch her in frame.

The tiny click of the camera sounded deafening in my skull. My stomach knotted. Had she noticed? The assistant was still talking, holding a small box in her hands, but my eyes stayed locked on Madeline.

Even before the image appeared on the screen, it was already burned into my mind. Her fingers closed around the lace, the tilt of her head, that impossible curve of her waist. My chest tightened, and I had to force myself to stay still, leaning against a rack of DVDs I hadn’t even been pretending to look at.

She stood by the makeshift changing area as the assistant reached into the small cardboard box. My breath caught. My thumb hovered over the camera, trembling. The assistant pulled something out. Smooth. Shiny. Perfectly plum-sized. My brain took a second to catch up.

An egg. Not the kind for breakfast. Something else. Something private. Something I wasn’t meant to see.

She dropped it into Madeline’s hands, and my mind went wild. I imagined how it would feel, how it would press against the skin I ached to touch. My pulse spiked, and my hands shook. Every instinct screamed at me to hide, to vanish, but I couldn’t look away.

The assistant’s presence pressed on me like a weight. I knew she could see it: the way I lingered, the way my eyes followed every move Madeline made. Every click of my camera made my heart jump. I was caught somewhere between thrill and terror, my obsession sharpening into something almost painful. And yet, I couldn’t stop.

Jesus.

Madeline had turned the egg over slowly, the way you’d feel something alive. Fingertips brushing that curve, catching the light. Her chest rose and fell with each measured breath, and I had to bite my tongue, press my teeth into my lip, to keep from making a sound. I took a shot. Then another. My hand shook.

Next came a small, dark bottle. One drop into Madeline’s palm… then another. I watched her lift her hand to her face, close her eyes, inhale the scent. Her mouth parted just slightly. She rubbed it between her fingers: slow, deliberate, glossy. I took three shots in quick succession, each one a stab of heat through my chest. My heart thundered. I wanted to run in, snatch her up, and rescue her from this place.

And then… the stool.

Madeline leaned over, hands flat on the seat, legs straight, ass pushing out. That tiny bell swayed once… twice. My gut clenched so hard I felt sick.

The assistant knelt behind her, slow and unhurried, pressing the egg against her pussy. Not slipping it in, not yet… just dragging it up, slick and glistening. The bell chimed again, soft and cruel.

Madeline let out a low sound, half-gasp, half-whimper, her back arching as though the touch surprised her. The sound speared straight through my gut.

Another pass. The egg circled lazily, teasing her clit, and this time she moaned: broken, breathy, real. Her thighs quivered. Her head tipped back, eyes fluttering closed.

The assistant’s gaze flicked up, catching mine across the aisle. Not startled. Not guilty. Amused. That faint smirk at the corner of her mouth said she knew exactly what she was doing: playing with Madeline, and playing with me.

The bell chimed again as Madeline gasped, biting her lip, trembling on her toes. Every sound that fell from her lips shredded me. She was supposed to be mine— mine, and yet here she was, surrendering to the touch of a stranger.

My chest burned. My hands shook. Fury tangled with hunger until I couldn’t breathe. The smirk on that woman’s face widened, almost imperceptibly, savoring the moment. Showing me that for now, she was the one making Madeline writhe.

I saw red. She was mine. My girl. Not this… this exhibition. Not this woman in the pale green sweater, with that faint smirk of someone who could read me like a book! Every ounce of my body screamed: possessive, furious, consumed. My fantasies collided with reality in a jagged explosion. My chest burned. My hands trembled. My teeth ground against each other.

I imagined ripping her free, dragging her out of that store, away from those hands that didn’t deserve her. Pressing her into the car, shielding her from every eye but mine. She’d beg me to stop: trembling, breathless, but I’d know the truth in the way her body arched against me. In my head, it wasn’t cruelty. It was a rescue. Claiming her back from the predator who thought she could play with what was mine.

And yet… I couldn’t. I was frozen, a coward in plain sight. My phone slid into my pocket with a clumsy jerk. I bolted, brushing past guys at the register, the chime of the door stabbing my ears. The rain hit me cold, hard, like punishment. My lungs burned. My vision blurred.

And all the while, in my head, she was still there: straddling the edge of control, swaying, teasing, like she’d chosen someone else over me. The betrayal cut sharply, slicing through the lust and obsession, leaving a bitter pulse of need I couldn’t quiet. I was powerless. Helpless. Obsessed. And it was only beginning.

--- 🐺 ---

The rain was coming down in silver sheets, hard enough that the streetlights blurred into soft, hazy halos. The asphalt gleamed black, pooling in the gutters like slow, dark currents. Water ran along the curb in little streams, curling into eddies around cigarette butts and bottle caps. I kept walking until I found the deep awning of a pawn shop, the kind that hadn’t been open past sunset in decades. The metal grate was locked over the door. No one could see me there.

I pressed my back to the cold brick, breathing hard, trying to quiet my pulse. My hands twitched, already knowing what they wanted. The bag from Zorba’s felt heavy in my pocket, but it wasn’t what I craved. What I wanted was still inside that store, still bent over that low stool, still ringing that damn little bell.

It started again in my head: my cut, my edit, my scene.

I wasn’t standing at the edge anymore. I was drowning, pulled under by the sight of her.

She was there, my Madeline, bent at the waist, ass tilted perfectly toward me. The lace of that thong clung to her, ribbons dangling loose from the assistant’s fingers. I reached out— my hand, not hers, and hooked a finger through the delicate tie, watching it fall open. The lace parted, and her heat spilled into the air, glistening. The bell swung softly, the sound slicing through the hush like a distant buoy in a fog-heavy harbor.

I pressed my hand to her hip, steadying her, thumb dragging lazy circles into her skin. In my other hand, the egg sat smooth and cool, fitting my palm like a wave-worn stone. I slid it along her pussy, and the slick warmth of her seemed to pour straight into me, up my arm, into my chest. My cock swelled harder in my fist in the real world, twitching, straining, as if it could feel her wetness too.

I wasn’t teasing her like the assistant had. I was deliberate. I knew where to press, how much to tilt, the rhythm that would make her thighs tremble. The bell chimed again: high, pure, cruel... as if marking every pulse of need between us.

Her body yielded, pushing back, opening for me. I could almost feel the heat closing around my fingers, that perfect clutch that made it impossible to breathe. The lace snagged briefly on the swell of her pussy before it slipped free, leaving only bare skin and the shiver of her need. I rolled the egg higher, dragging it over her clit, holding it there until her knees parted and her knuckles whitened against the stool.

Her head turned, slowly, over her shoulder. Eyes dark. Lips parted. She was looking right at me. No one else. Me.

And then the darker part of me came alive.

Not touch, not taste… ownership. She was mine, only mine. The thought twisted and throbbed inside me, a violent, unrelenting hunger. The assistant, the world... all gone. All that existed was Madeline, bent and open, waiting. My chest heaved, rain plastering my hoodie to my skin, but in my mind, my cock was poised at her entrance, slick with her arousal, straining for that first, unforgivable push.

I drove forward. God... the heat of her. The way her body gave way around me, stretching, yielding, gripping me like she’d been made for this moment, for me. My breath shattered in my throat as her pussy swallowed the head, then slid down my length, inch by inch, molten and wet and impossibly tight. Every nerve in me lit up, raw and electric, as though my cock was being branded by her.

She clenched around me, fluttering, pulling me deeper, deeper... each ripple dragging me further inside until I was lost. The imagined slick sound of her body taking me in fused with the wet slap of my hand on my cock, and for a second, I couldn’t tell the difference. My fist was her pussy, hot and wet and merciless, gripping me, refusing to let me go.

“Calvin…” Her voice was a trembling moan, low and broken, wrapping around me as if she were whispering it against my ear, against my mouth. My hips bucked, helpless, my body trying to drive into her even as my back pressed to the soaked brick.

The jealousy twisted tight. Every motion she’d made, every playful glance at that assistant, every laugh... mine. It had to be mine. I bent her deeper in my mind, spine curved, ass high, her breath coming sharp as she submitted fully, finally, to me. My jaw locked, teeth grinding, the rough bite of brick at my back, but my hips moved anyway, chasing the rhythm of my hunger.

Inside, I was buried to the hilt, swallowed whole by her. Her walls rippled and clenched, milking me so hard it bordered on pain, squeezing until my cock throbbed with every pulse of blood. I felt her soaking me, her juices running down my length, dripping over my balls, pooling at the place where we met. The bell chimed, sharp and pure, threading through the storm like a command, and the sound only pushed me deeper. In my head, she gasped my name: breath breaking, body trembling, each roll of her hips dragging me tighter into her heat until I couldn’t tell where I ended and she began.

God, the heat of her. Her pussy gripped me with fluttering waves, sucking me deeper, wetter, tighter. My hands were everywhere: fingers buried in her, curling up to catch the shiver of her climax, the egg pressing slick and merciless against her clit, her whole body quaking beneath my touch. She was breaking for me, bending for me, unraveling in tremors and moans that scattered across the water like sparks.

I thrust harder, lost in it. My cock swelled, pulsed, and burst: hot streams spilling inside her in the fantasy, spilling over my fist in reality. Her back arched, bell jingling wildly, high-pitched and frantic as she clamped around me, soaking me, milking me, grinding out her orgasm against my hips. The two of us shuddered together, her body collapsing forward, mine slamming back into cold brick, breath tearing ragged from my chest.

And for a moment... God, for a moment, there was nothing else. Just her. Madeline, trembling, lips parted on a sharp, desperate gasp that belonged only to me. Her thighs quivered, her pussy slick against my cock, her body trembling in perfect rhythm with mine. Utterly mine.

But as the heat ebbed, another pulse took hold. Darker. Heavier. Rage, fear, jealousy: all of it coiled together in the hollow left behind. The bell faded. The storm returned. The wet brick dug into my spine, reminding me where I was: just a man in the rain, fist sticky, heart pounding, a coward staring at what he could never touch.

I sagged against the brick, lungs raw, thighs slick, palms sticky with what I’d spilled. The rain hammered me back into myself, cold and relentless, soaking through my hoodie, plastering me in reality. Each drop stung, a reminder that I was out here alone: just a man trembling in the storm, not the god she made me in my head. And still, I couldn’t stop scanning the empty street, every shadow a threat, every flicker of movement a rival. Any second, Madeline could step out, and I would see her in someone else’s arms, ... or worse, she would see me like this, ruined and shivering, consumed by a hunger she had unknowingly unleashed.

The images on my phone seared behind my eyes: the lace, the bell, the egg, the bottle. Each one cut sharper now, crueler, as if mocking me. I knew I shouldn’t have taken them, shouldn’t have peeped, shouldn’t have fed this spiral... but I couldn’t stop. Every replay, every stolen second only fed the fire. She was mine in my head. Mine in every impossible, dark corner of me.

When my breathing slowed, I stayed pressed to the wall, shivering, chest knotted. The release was gone, already leeched out into the rain, but the hunger had only sharpened. It wound tighter inside me, a snake coiled around my gut. Every sound: the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, the echo of a footstep, the hiss of rain through the gutter, was a reminder that she was out there somewhere. Alive. Moving. Laughing. Unaware. While I was here, hollowed out and burning, made small by a want I couldn’t kill.

And in that soaked, shuddering quiet, I understood. I would never let her go. Not in truth, not in mind. She was in me now, every curve and tremor, every whispered syllable of my name. The bell, the lace, the heat of her imagined skin: each one a tether, binding me tighter. My body was spent, but my soul was shackled.

Madeline was mine. Always mine. She could laugh, love, fight, or run... none of it mattered. In the end, she belonged to me.