Chapter 4 #2
Her mouth opens. Closes.
Leave me alone.
As in: you abandoned me, and I hated it, and now you're back and I hate that too.
I see the exact moment she hears her own words the way I heard them.
Her expression shifts. Closes down. The fury drains out of her posture like someone pulled a plug, and suddenly she's just a girl standing on a sidewalk in downtown Idaho Falls, crying in public while strangers stare.
She looks smaller.
Defeated.
She wipes her face with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheek. Straightens her shoulders. Takes one long, shaky breath that I can see even through the camera feed.
Then she looks directly at the camera positioned above the bookstore entrance.
She can't possibly know which one I'm using. There are seven feeds covering this block alone.
But she's looking right at it anyway.
"Fuck you," she says clearly. Quietly. Just loud enough for the microphone to catch. "Fuck you, Caleb."
The business suit guy definitely heard that. He's looking at her differently now—not crazy lady, but someone who knows a specific person's name. Someone with a story.
Scarletta turns and walks away.
Not running. Not fleeing.
Just... walking.
Back toward her apartment, finally. Toward safety. Toward the only space she thinks I can't reach anymore.
I watch until she turns the corner and disappears from the downtown camera coverage.
Then I sit back in the driver's seat, hands resting on the steering wheel, and smile.
Finally.
Six months of watching her pretend.
Six months of controlled routines and careful performance.
Six months of her trying to convince herself—and me—that she's moved on.
And it took one scripted date with a trust fund pottery boy to shatter the entire illusion.
She's thinking about me again.
Screaming about me again.
Saying my name like a curse she can't stop speaking.
The pretending is over—
A sharp knock on my window.
I turn my head and actually laugh.
She's here. She found me.
She knocks again, harder this time. "I know you're in there, you sick fuck!"
She found me.
She found me.
I lower the window.
And she explodes.
"You sick fuck—you absolute piece of shit—you think this is funny? You think watching me lose my mind on a public street is entertainment?"
The words pour out of her like water from a broken dam. No filter. No performance. Just raw, uncut fury.
"Stalker—predator—manipulative psychopath—you killed someone, you murdered someone and jerked off on their corpse and I saw you and you think—you actually think—"
She's not making complete sentences anymore. Just fragments. Shrapnel.
"—that I'd want anything to do with you after—after everything you—controlling freak—obsessive—insane—"
My cock is already hard.
Not just hard. Throbbing. Aching. Straining against my zipper while she calls me every name she can summon from whatever dark vocabulary she's been building during six months of pretending I don't exist.
"—pathetic excuse for a man who has to buy women because no one would ever willingly—"
I open the door.
She jumps back, mid-rant, eyes going wide.
I unfold myself from the driver's seat, standing to my full height. She has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
But she doesn't stop talking.
"Don't you dare—don't you fucking dare come near me, I will scream, I will call the police, I will—"
I lean down until my lips are at her ear.
"Follow me, my good little slut."
Then I walk away.
Don't look back. Don't check if she's following. Don't give her the satisfaction of seeing uncertainty.
I head toward the alley between the bookstore and the wine bar—narrow, shadowed, exactly the kind of space decent people avoid after dark.
The alley smells like piss and rotting food from the dumpster halfway down. Not romantic. Not curated. Not part of any fantasy I've written for her.
Just real.
Just what's available right now.
I walk past the dumpster, past the rusted fire escape, to the alcove where the buildings don't quite meet—a gap maybe four feet wide, tucked behind a broken downspout.
I turn.
There she is.
Standing at the mouth of the alcove, breathing hard, mascara streaked down both cheeks.
Watching me.
I reach for my belt.
Her eyes drop immediately. Track every movement of my fingers as I unbuckle. As I unbutton. As I lower the zipper.
When I pull out my cock—already fully erect, already leaking—she licks her lips.
Unconscious gesture. Pure instinct.
Her eyes stay locked on my hand as I stroke myself once. Twice.
Then she looks up. Meets my gaze.
"Come here," I say quietly.
She doesn't move.
"Now, Scarletta."
One step. Then another. Hesitant. Like she's approaching something dangerous.
Smart girl.
"Press your back against that wall."
I gesture to the filthy brick behind me. Graffiti tags layered over years. Stains I don't want to identify. Rough texture that will scratch exposed skin.
Anger flashes in her eyes.
Good.
I want her angry. Want her conscious of every choice she makes. Want her to remember she walked into this alley knowing exactly what I'd ask for.
What I'd demand.
She moves past me into the alcove. The space is so narrow our bodies brush as she passes, and I hear her breath catch.
Then she turns.
Presses her back against the brick wall.
Just stands there.
Waiting.
I stroke my cock slowly, deliberately, letting her watch.
Her chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths. Her pupils are blown wide. Her hands flatten against the brick on either side of her hips—not pushing off, not trying to leave.
Just bracing.
"Six months," I say conversationally, still stroking. "Six months of watching you pretend."
Her jaw tightens.
"Watching you run every morning like you're training for something. Watching you sit in that coffee shop staring at blank documents. Watching you go on dates with boring men who couldn't fuck you the way you need if their lives depended on it."
"Fuck you," she whispers.
"You will," I agree. "But not yet."
I step closer.
Close enough that the head of my cock nearly brushes her stomach through that pretty yellow sundress she's wearing.
Fabric so thin I can see the outline of her hip bones beneath it.
Summer dress that screams wholesome and normal and definitely not the kind of girl who writes rape fantasies in her spare time.
She doesn't move away.
Her breathing picks up. Shallow, rapid. I can see her pulse hammering in her throat.
"How'd you like Marty?" I ask, genuinely curious. My hand keeps moving on my cock. "Was he the kind of safe man you were looking for?"
Her eyes flick down to my hand. Back up to my face. Defiant.
"Did he meet your expectations?" I tilt my head, studying her flushed cheeks. "Did you imagine what it would feel like, pretty slut? His nice, respectful cock inside you? The way he'd probably ask permission before every single thing he did to your body?"
"Stop," she whispers.
But she's not looking at my eyes when she says it. She's watching my hand stroke my cock. Watching precum leak from the tip.
"Do you still masturbate?" I ask casually. "Or did you give that up too when you decided to play normal?"
Something flashes across her face. Shame, maybe. Or anger at being seen.
"You already know I don't," she says flatly. "You've been watching me."
I shake my head slowly. "Not in your apartment. I understand limits, Scarletta. You destroyed the cameras. I respected that boundary."
She actually laughs. A sharp, bitter sound that cuts through the space between us. "Limits?" She stares at me like I've said something genuinely hilarious. "Limits? You're standing in an alley jerking off in front of me and you want credit for respecting boundaries?"
Fair point.
I press my cock against her stomach. Just the head at first. Light pressure. Enough that she feels it through the thin fabric.
A wet spot blooms on the yellow cotton. Clear fluid soaking into the dress. Marking her.
"Why don't you masturbate anymore?" I ask quietly. "What happened?"
"Fuck off." Her voice shakes. "It's none of your business. And if you think it is—if you think that money you keep sending me is enough to buy me again—you're mistaken."
I don't answer.
Just keep stroking myself. Slower now. Deliberate. Watching her watch me.
Then I press forward again.
This time I don't stop. I rub my cock against her dress in slow, deliberate circles. Smearing precum across the yellow fabric. Soiling it on purpose. Claiming it.
Ruining it.
Her eyes stay locked on mine.
She's holding her breath.
I can see her ribs expand and freeze. Can see the way her lips part slightly like she's about to speak but can't quite form words.
"Make me stop," I say softly.
She doesn't move.
"Say the word, Scarletta. Tell me no. Push me away. Scream for help." I press my thigh between her legs. "Do any single fucking thing that indicates you don't want this."
A whimper escapes her throat.
Small sound. Desperate.
I move my thigh. Slow, firm pressure against her pussy through the dress. Rubbing her the way I know she needs. The way those boring yoga instructors and pottery boys never could.
"That's what I thought," I murmur. "Still just a filthy little slut who gets wet when dangerous men corner her in alleys."
"No—" She gasps when I increase the pressure. "I'm not—"
"You are." I keep grinding my thigh against her pussy. Feel the heat of her through two layers of fabric. "You're a desperate, cock-hungry whore who's been pretending to be normal for six months and hating every second of it."
Another whimper.
Her hands are still pressed flat against the brick wall, but her hips have started moving. Small, unconscious rocks forward into the friction I'm providing.
"That's right, pretty slut," I breathe. "Take what you need. Hump my leg like the bitch in heat you are."
"Stop—" But she doesn't mean it. Her body is betraying every protest her mouth makes.
"You want to come, don't you?" I watch her face.
The flush spreading down her neck. The way her eyes keep losing focus.
"You want to soak through this nice wholesome dress while I watch.
Want to prove you're still the same broken girl who checked all those boxes on a consent form because she needed someone to own her. "
She's close.
I can read every sign. The way her breathing hitches. The tension building in her shoulders. The desperate little sounds catching in her throat.
So I stop moving.
Step back.
Remove all contact.
Her eyes fly open. Wild. Devastated.
"No—" It comes out broken. "Please—"
She catches herself. Claps both hands over her mouth like she can shove the word back inside.
But I heard it.
Please.
She's trembling. Tears streaming down her face now, mixing with the smeared mascara. She turns away from me, pressing her face into her hands.
Trying to hide.
I reach out. Gentle this time. Thread my fingers through her hair the way I know she likes—firm enough to feel controlled, soft enough to feel safe.
"All you have to do is ask," I whisper directly into her ear. "Say the word and I'll put my big cock up inside that needy pussy of yours. Fuck you right here against this dirty wall until you scream. Give you everything you've been dreaming about for six months."
She lifts her head.
Looks at me with those tear-bright eyes.
Parts her lips.
"Please, Master."
Victory surges through me—
Then she shoves past me. Hard enough that I actually stumble.
"Please, Master," she repeats, voice dripping venom. "Go fuck yourself."
She tries to walk away.
I grab her arm.
Not hard. Just enough to stop her momentum. Just enough to turn her back toward me.
I knew it would end like this the first time. Knew she'd bolt the moment she felt herself surrendering.
So I prepared.
I pull the business card from my pocket. Heavy card stock, embossed lettering. My real contact information—not some burner number, not a proxy.
Direct access.
I hold it up so she can see it. Read the name printed there in elegant serif font. Then I slip it into her purse. "You know where to find me," I say calmly, "when you're ready for this cock again."
I tuck myself back into my slacks. Take my time with the zipper. The button. The belt.
Let her watch me compose myself while she stands there, flushed, and desperate, and furious.
Then I turn and walk away.
"I won't be back, Scarletta," I call over my shoulder. Let my voice carry through the alley. Let her hear the absolute certainty in it.
"You will come to me."